The Christmas Year
by Tess the Hatter
Summary: When Hermione trips over one snowy afternoon, she does not expect to hit her knee quite so hard, and she most definitely does not expect to find an old childhood nemesis laying around with hypothermia. This is the story of how Hermione rescues Draco, how fate and irony snake around them, and how their lives change. DM/HG. Warning: difficult themes
1. Prologue: Hermione's misadventure

Summary: When Hermione trips over one snowy afternoon, she does not expect to hit her knee quite so hard, and she most definitely does not expect to find an old childhood nemesis laying around with hypothermia. This is the story of how Hermione rescues Draco, how fate and irony snake around them, and how their lives change. DM/HG. Warning: difficult themes

**A/N: This story has been gnawing at my brain for a while, and it is finally time to set it free. I do want to warn you that it does not deal with the easiest themes... there are references to rough sleeping (a very live problem in the UK), political and administrative disarray, rough social conditions, minor character death, illness, sexuality, and more. Some of the references may appear almost (or not almost) offensive - so please understand that they are for the purpose of the story and the character development. We cannot always be politically correct, and unfortunately the world is plagued with truly despicable people - they are believable because they are real. Aside from the warnings, I truly hope that you enjoy the story as much as I am enjoying writing it. Hopefully the humorous and raw tone will balance out the more bitter flavours. The next chapters will follow soon...!**

**I owe all the respect to JK Rowling, the creator of these magnificent characters and world, and my thanks for letting us play around with them. All characters and themes, of course, belong to her.**

Prologue: Hermione's Misadventure

Late Christmas shopping was always ill-advised. Hermione knew that and she did try to get most gifts ahead of time, you see. She got all the presents two weeks ago, going by a checklist she constructed years ago - and sadly had to slightly amend following the war. So, it wasn't entirely her fault that she forgot the newest member of the Potter-Weasley clan.

"The one-year old, Hermione," she whispered to herself, "that's who you forget."

She pushed herself through the quickly filling trail in the snow, careful not to slip on the ice underfoot. The game she got was just for little Jamie's age, an educational ring puzzle pyramid that moonlights as a chew toy. Educational and functional - a perfect gift in Hermione's mind.

"To be fair… he is basically brand new," she muttered into her thick orange scarf. As it turned out, the wizarding world's toys for toddlers were mostly of the entertaining sort - which she was sure Jaime had more than enough of thanks to Ron and George. So to get this _more appropriate _gift, Hermione had to wander deep into muggle London, and was currently busy losing herself in the twists and turns of the labyrinth that some choose to call Soho.

The trouble that evening was actually dual: not only did the stores close early for the holidays - which she made just in time to snatch her chosen present and run to the self-checkout. Her biggest issue was with the snowfall, which was announced on the news to be extremely heavy and 'dangerous'. Wizards were encouraged to remain in magical areas and stick to apparating or floo networks. Even her weather app recommended to stay indoors, flashing a colourful alert that morning, she recalled.

The snowfall was so heavy, in fact, that it was restricting her vision. Particularly under the street lights where the white flurries were hovering down at her, creating a white avalanche beyond which was an impenetrable darkness.

In retrospect, that was probably what caused her fall, though staring at the WizNav on her WizPhone was probably of equal fault. It happened very quickly: the melting snow on her screen was distorting the image, Hermione was blinking rapidly to remove a big snow flake that landed on her eyelashes, she was huffing into her scarf in frustration combined with a vain attempt to stay warm when suddenly the world had the audicity to tilt on its axis.

A red jolt of blinding pain is all that Hermione knew for the next two minutes. Deep inhales of the cruely cold air and the sharp pain are all she can concentrate on after her knee hits the ice.

"Shit, blimey, blimey blimey blimey," she groaned. "Better not be broken," Hermione whimpered before sliding to the side and attempting to move her knee. The pain was running hot needles down her leg and around the injured area, but the leg moved. _So far so good_, Hermione thought, blinking away the tears that the movement brought upon her. Allowing the pain to dull from a thunderstorm-in-a-knee-cap to harsh needle-poking brought about new sensations. In particular, an uncomfortable cold and wetness right around her right tigh and bum.

This was when Hermione realised that since her tumble she was sitting on the snow, slowly becoming burried in the white mess, while her jacket and trousers were starting to soak through.

It was just then when a thought occurred to her - she did not see what tripped her over. It wouldn't seem that she stepped off the pavement. Could she have just slipped? No, her foot definitly hit something soft - or hard - it was hard to tell. It must have been a discarded article or something else she would have seen had it not been so snowy (_and had she lifted her eyes from the WizPhone screen_, a voice in her head reminded her. She repressed it).

That was when she saw it. A dark shape, hardly visible in the shroud of whiteness. A flash of panic from the war hit her - it was unmistakably the shape of a person.

Within seconds, Hermione crawled to the figure's side, wincing at the pain projecting from her knee in waves.

"Excuse me, Sir? Sir?" She shook the figure, crudely sweeping snow and ice from the person's face and coat. "Are you okay, sir?"

_By God, please do not be dead_. Hermione thought, looking around frantically up and down the street for someone to show from the blinding darkness.

"Anyone?!" She screamed into the darkness, "I need help! There's someone who's hurt here!"

Met with silence, she shouted once more: "Please!" voice cracking. With shaky hands, she tried to pull her right glove off. Biting the edge of the middle finger, she removed it, mildly cringing at the impact with the biting air.

Hermione slipped her fingers between the messy beard and dirty brown scarf of the fallen person, pressing two fingers firmly to his neck.

"Thank Merlin," she muttered upon finding a pulse.

The man was alive, but she needed to get him to a hospital as soon as possible. Hermione looked around, eyes scanning the mounds of snow around her in search for her WizPhone, locating it a metre away. She would need it to call an ambulance.

Reaching and grabbing the WizPhone, Hermione turned back to the lying man when her breath caught in her throat.

"Fuck," she gasped, her breathe lingering before leisurely dissipating around her.


	2. Chapter 1: Christmas morning

**A/N: Dear readers, thanks for joining for another chapter! Now, I must tell you two things. The first you might figure out yourself, but I will still tell you that the perspective shifts between Draco and Hermione. The second is that although the story is mostly linear, it sometimes skips back and forth in time. Not in this chapter, but in coming chapters it most definitely will. You should be able to see it immediately - but still, I am simply offering some advance warning.**

**I hope you will enjoy the chapter and if someone is up for beta-ing, I would love to hear from you. It's a tough job, editing your own work and finding all those minute typos.**

* * *

Chapter 1: Christmas morning

For the first time in months Draco was warm. Warm and comfortable, in fact. The asphalt was no longer stealing the little body heat that he was generating and the hard ground was not making his bones ache. He did not smell the odours of his own body: the sweat and grime he has accumulated, to which he has become so accustomed that they felt like a part of him. Nor the bodily excrements that usually filled the air near the alleys he has come to call home. No, he was wrapped in a warm cloud of softness, the dreadful scents gone, and even the cars rushing by have quieted to a gentle faraway lull.

The smell of laundry detergent, vanilla scented candles, and that particular warm aroma generated by a working radiator filled the air around him. Engulfed in warmth and comfort, Draco almost slipped back into sleep, but through the haze of sleepiness, a realisation started creeping onto him. Really, there could only be one explanation for this sudden change: he must have finally passed to the next world… Froze to death, most likely. Indeed, the last thing he remembered was not feeling cold anymore, which any fool knew was bad when sat in a growing pile of snow. He remembered drifting away, too tired to defy sleep - and to be fully honest - no longer caring for the consequences. That must have been how Draco Malfoy has unnoticeably left this world.

A slight shift in the incline of his body alerted him to a body next to him. A source of the heat that was cozying him up, and probably also the source of the smells of vanilla and, yes, cinnamon and apples that was engulfing him. Though, he did not smell too bad himself, he realised. This was curious, had he slipped into an altered memory of the past in his last moments? Was it Pansy near him, warming his bed like during those cold months during his Seventh year in Hogwarts? Was it Astoria Greengrass, who he had a short but sweet romance with, before his life was turned into what it was in the last two years? That could be - after all, if the papers are to be believed, she was dead as well.

But no. There were two problems in his theory. First, Astoria smelt of lavender and rose hip, definitely not vanilla, apples, and cinnamon. Secondly, he was sure that if he was dead, he would not be lounging on a soft mattress, covered by a fluffy duvet, head resting on a pillow crafted by angels with his sweetheart-while-alive (who smelt false) at his side. No, the temperature would without doubt be higher, the air would be filled with screams, and there would be a pitchfork or two flying around. Unless… This was a preparation for that scenario and he was being fooled into a false sense of security. Damned afterlife bastard demons.

His curiosity finally peaked, Draco decided to crack one eye open and peer about.

The first thing he noticed was the cream coloured walls around him. Cream? That certainly served to rejuvenate the hell theory. He was in a bedroom filled with oak furniture: a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, books in piles on the shelf and in different corners of the room, and a partly drawn curtain revealing a sheet of white outside the window. There was a Muggle radiator under the window spreading heat in the room, and a door probably leading into the en suite. What was most striking, though, was the shape laying next to him. He could distinguish a female form under the blanket, but not much else, other than a great mane of hair that looked vaguely familiar. He could not see the face of the demon/kidnapper/mystery-person/hallucination that was hidden under a mass of dark brown curls.

Maybe it was one of those now-nameless bodies that he warmed the beds of in his first year of wandering… But why would this be his end-of-life hallucination? _Should it not be more… well, meaningful?_ Draco wondered.

The form next to his suddenly took a sharp intake of air and lifted onto her elbow, her bare back partly exposed to him. She then snatched a robe from her bedside table and adorned it with expert speed, stood up, letting the definitely-cozy-material-by-the-looks-of-it fall around her. The woman turned toward him while tightly knotting the robe at her front.

"Ah, great, you're alive," she muttered, getting up and giving a flabbergasted Draco a critical scan. Seeming satisfied, she turned toward the bathroom. "One hell of a Christmas morning that would have been. Waking up next to a corpse," she added under her breath as she walked away.

Well, that excluded one possibility. At least he knew he was not a corpse. Or… maybe the after-life demons are a lot more sophisticated than he gave them credit for. Setting that theory aside for the moment, Draco decided to concentrate on the situation at hand. For one, he assumed he should have some questions.

"I will brush my teeth and then perform some checks on you." She informed him, her hand on the door knob. "You look fundamentally better than yesterday, so you might just make it, Malfoy."

No, that did not answer any of his questions. At least his identity was confirmed, he figured.

Draco blinked as the figure disappeared into the bathroom, attempting to process what had just occurred and the sequence of events that led up to it. He was not in hell, despite the colour of the walls trying to prove otherwise. Unless hell was a particularly cruel place and Hermione Granger was his personal torturer. The bossy tone and matter-of-fact attitude was unmistakable. The only reason the hair did not give it away is because… well, Draco just could not fathom waking up next to Hermione Granger after falling asleep in an alley just off Peter's Street. In fact, this was defying all logic.

"What on earth is going on?" he demanded, his voice coming out more feeble and pleading than he intended. As a response, a gurgle of sounds came from the bathroom. Hermione re-emerged a moment later, holding a toothbrush, a look of mild annoyance on her face.

"Just wait." She dared to ordain before shutting the door again.

Well, that wasn't helping at all.

"Don't try to get up," she reappeared at the doorway, without a toothbrush this time. "I found you with hypothermia and you might feel uncoordinated. Confusion is also normal. I will get you a cup of tea." At that she strode purposefully toward the other door in the room, or rather, attempted to - for Draco noted a limp in her otherwise straight stature. At the door, she stopped again and sternly added, with her back turned toward him. "Stay there." Glancing back, looking slightly over his head "milk, sugar?"

Draco's jaw was slightly ajar at the absurdity of the situation. "Milk."

She nodded sharply, disappearing once more through a door way.

* * *

"Eat something," Hermione nudged a toast forward toward Malfoy, who was sat across the table from her, glaring with narrowed eyes. "Seriously, Malfoy, you look malnourished."

When he slowly reached and grabbed a slice of bread, sliding it into his plate, Hermione sighed. "Merlin, it's not poisoned. If I wanted you dead, I would have just left you in that alley."

Apparently, resolving to munch on the bread, Malfoy picked up the offending object but kept staring at Hermione with a suspicious gaze. She considered letting him know just how un-intimidating he looked, huddled in a thick blanket, clutching his toast. A bit like an angry hamster… No, with his slender frame and albino look, he was definitely more reminiscent of a hostile ferret.

She rolled her eyes.

"Let's start again, shall we?" She requested, sipping her tea and leaning back in her seat. "Can you tell me how you ended up almost freezing to death yesterday?"

He stopped his nibbling, clearly considering how much to tell her. He cleared his throat, and gracefully set his toast back on the plate before folding his arms on his lap and staring squarely into her eyes.

"Out with my mates on a crawl," he responded, "must have ended up so pissed that I passed out in that alley." He then waved his arm in dismissal before picking up his toast once more.

"Give me a break, Malfoy," Hermione drawled. "Unless you've been at that pub crawl for months, you would have not smelt as foul as you did when I brought you here."

Malfoy gaze flattened, "I do apologise if my odours have offended you, Granger," he responded. "I do not, however, recall begging to be taken in and, mind you, being stripped naked while unconscious. Was that one of your fantasies, Granger? Because you could have told me, maybe we could have arranged something."

"You are disgusting, Malfoy," Hermione wrinkled her nose at him. "If that's your gratitude for rescuing your sorry arse from freezing to death, all the while spreading your 'odours' throughout my house, which were, by the way worse than the most potent Dungbomb, then you might as well - " suddenly an item on the table buzzed, shifting her attention to it. In the corner of her eye, she noted that the noise made Malfoy start. _Good, let that ungrateful ferret jump,_ the nastier, vengeful part of her declared.

"What's that? You've got an iPhone?" The ferret squeaked.

Hermione gave him a quizzical look, getting off her chair to leave the room, "You know what an iPhone _is_?"

* * *

Stepping into the living room, Hermione glanced back at the open door to the kitchen before swiping to answer the call. Partly to make sure that Malfoy did not follow her to eavesdrop, _who knows what goes on in the mind of that bugger_, and partly to double check that he _was_ eating. Despite the improving condition of his body temperature, she was worried about his overall health. The ribs were sticking out too much… not that she wanted to recall how she came to that assessment.

"Good morning," she spoke.

"Morning!" rang a cheerful voice on the other end of the line, "and merrrrrry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," she smiled. Familiar voice, familiar reality. "How are you?"

"Exhausted. I was on call yesterday, all night. Had 16 new cases of the Vanishing Sickness, all on Christmas Eve and night! Contagious as hell, half of the cases from one family… Anyway, I saw your missed call when the shift ended, anything urgent?"

"No, I shouldn't think so," she responded, contemplating how much to tell. "I came across a wizard yesterday, he was knocked out in the snow, and got a case of hypothermia. I wanted to consult you on how to treat him. And before you say anything! I decided against apparating to St Mungo's because of that nasty scrofungulus epidemic. I read it was spreading quite quickly these past two weeks, and judged him too weak to be exposed."

Silence. A clacking noise followed through the line, "mmm… you were probably right. No risk comes directly from hypothermia, of course. But you cannot know if there are any underlying conditions that could have been triggered," the voice finally responded. Yawn. "Sorry, it was an intense twenty-four shift, I am processing a little slowly," he added.

"Completely understandable, Ron, you should go rest."

"Do you want me to come by and check on the patient?" Ron inquired, "I can floo straight away." Hermione glanced toward the door, at the partly visible silhouette of Draco, who was aggressively destroying a toast with big chucks of butter. "Just need to grab a pair of clean trousers… got some potions spilled on me…" he laughed, "lucky it wasn't anything like Bundimun Secretion! That would have burnt a hole through the trousers in seconds!"

"What potion was it?"

"Murtlap essence… so no itchy legs or trousers for the foreseeable future."

"Hm, lucky you," Hermione said thoughtfully, briefly considering its use for leg shaving. "Either way, I think there is no need for you to come. I have the situation under control, but thanks for offering" she said, before adding "the patient's body temperature is stabilising, tremors have passed, I used my strongest heat isolation spells… I think it's just monitoring from now on."

"Yeah soun-" a yawn "- sounds like you've got it under control. Never doubted you 'Mione. Try pepper up if you have any. If not, I'll give you some this evening, mum always has a cabinet full of them."

Hermione chuckled, "Alright, go get some sleep. I'll see you at the party this evening."

"Yeah, party…" Ron's sleepy voice mumbled, "who's the wizard, by the way?"

* * *

Standing in the living room for a minute, Hermione stared at the WizPhone in her hands. She knew she made the right choice. St Mungo's would have been the wrong place to take Malfoy for more than just that one reason. He was also not a well-liked face in the Wizarding world anymore. Not after that scandal about two years ago. She assumed he left to some private Wizarding bohemian island when he disappeared. At least that was the rumour in Ginny's _Witch Weekly_ that occasionally just happened to fall into Hermione's lap - and really, she had nothing better to do when waiting at the queue at the hairdressers… or when she was waiting for her coffee order to be ready… or when she was at the bathroom, after all, was there anything else to do there? Really, what she is trying to say is that you have no authority to judge her - what is important, is that _she_ does not have a subscription. And besides: anyone with a sense of humour can appreciate the snarky comments of Brutally Honest Amanda in her love advice column. And this is all beside the point anyway. The concern now is with the precarious situation at the Granger residence.

She has made the right decision to bring him here, she persisted in her mind. Malfoy would have certainly died outside - and even such an ungrateful, rude git does not deserve such a fate. In St Mungo's, his sudden appearance would have sparked a controversy, and the more she looked at the thin figure in her kitchen, the more she was becoming convinced that perhaps it is better to keep him out of the public eye for the time being. His long blonde hair was a tangled mess on his head, despite being thoroughly washed last night. It begged for a haircut… and that is not to mention the matted beard. His face has not changed, though. It was still his sharp, aristocratic features. A long sculpted nose, chiseled cheekbones, defined chin - but his look was too sunken. He looked tormented and, quite frankly, starved. _Too bad, put on some weight, and he could have been quite a handsome man if he wasn't such a prat_, she mused. Well, now she was staring too long. Avoiding conversation no doubt. Such a fucking handful he is.

She glanced away from him for a second to put her phone in her jumper pocket, and started slowly walking toward the kitchen. Yes, Draco Malfoy looked hellish, she decided. In her school days, he would not have been caught dead without a thick layer of gel in his hair and now he looked ready to host those birds that he so keenly tried to house in her hair when they were younger. Indeed, she assumed he would not have appreciated reappearing in the Wizarding world in his homeless garb - not that his opinion mattered, of course.

Well, no point dwelling on this. Now was the time to face the consequences of her actions. Yes, she brought him here, saved his life in one of her I-spend-too-much-time-with-Harry moments, and now she had the despicable prat happily sipping tea in her kitchen, feeling comfortably entitled to insult her. It was time to act like an adult - Malfoy may not be acquainted with that idea, but she was. With purpose in mind, Hermione Granger marched (with a hobble) into the kitchen to face her childhood tormentor, resolving to leave the past in the past… Though a part of her, that part that was starting to sound a lot like Brutally Honest Amanda, reminded her how it may have been quite childish to scrub herself so roughly in her morning shower with her new loofah, following the night spent next to Malfoy. Completely naked. Gods.

* * *

Upon Hermione's return to the kitchen, she was unsurprised to face the grumpy ferret at the table. _Grateful much_. She was slightly surprised to find the bread, butter, and raspberry jam all gone. Empty plates gracing the table._ Hm, he must have been hungry,_ she thought, uncomfortable.

"So, are we betraying the wizarding world? Muggle techies?" Draco greeted her, nudged toward the WizPhone in her hand with a self-satisfied smile. "And what's with the limp?" He pointed to her leg through his blanket.

"You've been gone for a while, haven't you?" she mused as she sat down, lifting her tea to her lips. "Never heard of WizPhones?"

"WizPhones? New Muggle adaptations?" Malfoy sneered in distaste.

"Hardly Muggle," she responded, "full magical technology, tips the market - everyone has one of those. Though I have to admit, it comes from a partnership with Apple. Steve Wozniak is a squib, so approaching him about the technology was not problematic… anyway, I doubt that makes any sense to you. As for the limp, that's your fault, lying around so irresponsibly under the snow after your 'night out'," Hermione motioned for air brackets, giving him a pointed look, "tripping innocent witches."

"Innocent, my arse," Draco retorted, "walking around alone at such hour." He snorted.

Hermione stared at him, "it was _half five_!" She responded incredulous.

"Well, maybe we started drinking early," he said defiantly.

"Okay, Malfoy, let's drop all pretences, I am not blind. I can tell you've been sleeping rough," Hermione refused to recoil from the daggers Malfoy was staring into her. "What I don't know is for how long, why, and I won't ask any more about it. You can tell me as much or as little as you want, but for now, I need to measure your body temperature and do a couple more tests to make sure that you are recovering."

A minute passed, and Hermione waited. No response. Malfoy was conveniently surveying everything in sight, a light sneer pasted on his face. _Blimey, that pride._ She sighed, stood, gripping the table for support when the misbehaving knee decided to buckle under her. She started weaving spells around him while Malfoy sat like a sullen child, refusing to meet her gaze, huddled in his blanket.

"Looking fine," Hermione commented as she sat down again. She tried to catch his eye, but he appeared adamant to stare over her right shoulder, studying the little flower pot she got last Christmas from Cormac. Pursing her lips into an awkward line, she moved into his line of vision. This has to be asked. She has to… so she blurted out: "do you have somewhere to stay?"

A genuine reaction. For a millisecond, Draco's eyes widened, eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes darted to the snowstorm visible outside the window. Then it was all gone - a blank look, probably meaning indifference, replacing the raw fear that was evident there just a moment before. Her heart clenched in sympathy. Fear was familiar. Fear was something she has felt every day during the war. _Oh Merlin…_

Malfoy did not say a thing, suddenly transfixed with his now-empty mug.


	3. Chapter 2: The deal

**A/N: Thank you all for your kind comments! I hope not to disappoint - but also keep in mind that this story may stretch out for a while. I am taking it at the pace of the characters, and as you may know: Draco and Hermione are particularly stubborn.**

**Also, you may have noticed the very intentional and provocative integration of Muggle life in the magical universe. Give it some time and all will be explained. For now, I will just let you and Draco wonder and be a little bit confused. I'll also let you wonder what happened to Draco… It's all a part of the intrigue :)**

**So, DramionEverlarkPeetatoRichonne, AspenRust and Cindy, thank you all for your comments! HollyGlen, I am very pleased that my Ron storyline managed to break the expected formula and that you are enjoying the direction that this is taking. This too will be elaborated on at later stages.**

**And now, without further ado, please accept my second chapter down below.**

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Chapter 2: The deal

One may be wondering, what exactly has occurred that night when Hermione Granger rescued the popsicle-like Draco from the alley near Peter Street. Hermione was not happy to divulge that information because it made her - well, um, slightly uncomfortable. But, as the narrator of this tale, I have decided to completely disregard her feelings and tell you everything in profound detail.

* * *

The stench only hit her as they landed in her living room. She choked the raising bile down, instinctively clamping her nostrils shut with her fingers.

No, there is no time for that. The man could die if she did not act quickly. What was he even doing there, lying in a pile of snow, stinking like piss, sweat, and Merlin knows what else?

She pressed her hand to her face, covering her mouth and nose, rocking her brain to remember what to do in the case of severe hypothermia. Cover with blankets? Seems futile at the moment. Drink hot tea? Not appropriate. She was sceptical that he would wake up for a nice cup of Darjeeling at the moment. If he will wake up at all… She needed to work very fast.

Gagging, a memory came to mind - hot water. Shower, bath, anything to warm up the body. She ran into her bathroom, plugged the bottom of the bathtub, and threw the tap open. It will start filling while she was getting the man into the small chamber.

_Wasn't he supposed to be in the Caribbean's or some other exotic location?_ She wandered to herself. Indeed, all the headlines tracking Draco Malfoy disappeared around two years ago. The _Witch Weekly_ stopped reporting his every move right sometime after that scandal in the press. Yes, that headline in the _The Daily Prophet_, about seizure of assets. Malfoy leaves the country, it said, storms out of the court room.

She levitated the reeking body, trying to breathe through her mouth. It has definitely been some time since he showered. Entering the bathroom, she deposited the lank body on the rug. A rug she will have to wash, a part of her - not the better part, mind you - reflected.

The tub was half filled, scalding water gashing out of the pipe. That's good, the first few minutes would have been waters straight from the glaciers. They should balance each other out. She put her hand in the water, swirling in circles to mix the water. Still lukewarm.

She glanced at the unconscious body. Hm. She would have to strip him. _Malfoy would kill me if he was awake_, she reflected, _but then, he can only kill me if he ever awakes._

The idea of un-clothing Malfoy made Hermione uncomfortable. She bit down on the inside of her mouth and lip. No choice. It's a matter of survival now. No time to be prudish.

The tub was still just over half full, the water getting warmer and warmer, but she decided to put him in already.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered to herself, muttering a spell to remove clothes. This spell was used in hospital scenarios, she learnt from Ron. To administer help urgently, removing an article of clothes when blood has clotted to it, or in cases of serious hex or curse damage where the affected area needed to be accessed immediately.

Averting her eyes from certain regions and fixing her gaze over the nude body, Hermione levitated the naked, grimy form from the rug and gently lowered into the water. _Well, at least it helps the stench a bit_, she thought.

_Not the water though…_ she deliberated, studying the water as they kept getting murkier and clammier around the body. She looked around uncertainly, half-considering finding a stick to probe him awake.

"Fuck," she whispered, picking up her loofah, and moving toward the still-ill smelling Malfoy. _Think practical Hermione_, she thought to herself. _Remove grime, dispose of water,_ she listed, picking up his arm and starting to run the loofah up and down his skin,_ then cast a warming spell to keep the temperature of the water in a cloud around his body, rinse the tub, fill again, drop the nuclear bath-bomb in, wash again._

She grimaced, _never expected to be giving a bath to Malfoy_, in fact, she imagined what expression she would get had she told her younger self that this would be happening.

She stopped running the water and moved on to his other arm, scrubbing ruthlessly at the dirty skin. Then the chest, the neck, stopping for a moment to regard the sunken features of the man she knew as a boy. A dirty beard, clamps of hair stuck together, (some shampoo would do), dirt on the face. She should feel sorry for him, and maybe she did. But there was no time for that.

She considered his features for one more second, sharper than before, probably because of malnutrition. _What has happened to him?_ She then plunged the dirty loofah into the now-resembling-a-bog water and roughly scoured his face. That not-so-good part of her felt a sense of satisfaction, like that time she punched Malfoy in the face. Only this time she was attempting to save his life. She leaned him forward resting his shoulder against her, and scrubbed at his back, loofah dripping brownish water back into the tub. He was not as heavy as she expected. That was slightly concerning. But practical for the moment.

She grimaced. _Oh Merlin_, she thought, biting her lower lip,_ just do it Hermione_. She plunged her arm into the water, scrubbing at his legs, and trying to ignore the possibility to accidentally hitting his… delicate regions.

_Next, warming spell._ Few witches and wizards understand how the spell truly works. It only traps body heat that is generated by the body - and hence would hardly be helpful in the case of hypothermia. Thanks to the heat of the water, though, the spell should keep him from freezing for a the few minutes it would take to change the water.

Methodically, and through quick spell work, she levitated the unconscious Malfoy, disposed of the water, cast a cleaning charm on the tub, and - manually - turned the water back on. This time it was coming in hot from the start. Adjusting the temperature, she reached for the shelf with the basket of bath-bombs. She selected a strongly scented Christmas-themed bomb, _something with a nice spice to it_, she mindlessly considered as she turned back toward the tub.

Oh God. She looked. It was completely accidental. But she just saw Malfoy's jewels. Shaking her head to clear the image from her mind, she tossed the bath-bomb into the tub, she lowered Malfoy into the gathering waters, pointedly looking over his head.

She washed the loofah in the sink, accepting that after this expedition, it will need to be thrown out. She started scrubbing Malfoy's skin with the soapy water as the tub kept filling. Less murky, less smelly, good. Some shampooing to the hair and the beard, and he would be as good as new. Perhaps better than the version she knew. She reflected that his company was a lot less infuriating when he's soporose, as unfortunate as it sounds.

Water out, and turning the shower on from above, Hermione gave the unconscious man a rinse, and threw a drying spell.

She bit her lip. Clothes… The only male clothes she had were_ his_. The ones she never gave back… wrapping a guest robe over the scarily Christ-looking levitating body, she considered. _Giving away his clothes to Malfoy… feels wrong._ Not to mention that she hid them and kept them to herself when they broke up. _That's not right either,_ a voice whispered. The voice, of course, did not understand. So the voice can be ignored.

"Shit."

Malfoy's skin was still cold to the touch. She ground her teeth. If she was going to try to save him, she might as well give it her best. It was Christmas Eve, after all.

She tore the offending robe off the blonde still-levitating figure, threw the covers off her bed, and not-so-gently dumped him in.

"Blimey," she muttered, stripping off her clothes.

* * *

Draco Malfoy felt guilty, alright. Not a particularly familiar sensation he had to admit, but unmistakable. Tightening in his throat, heavy chest; the uneasy feeling was gnawing at him, but he could think of nothing he could do to remedy the situation. His mouth operated on its own agenda, seamlessly sliding into old habits. But Granger was treating him with kindness, a sort of cold and unembellished kind of kindness, but far more than he has seen in months - perhaps years.

And here he was, a rescued vagabond at best or a stinking nuisance at worse, being nothing short of a _twat_ to her as a knee reflex! He couldn't blame it all on habit, though. When she asked how he ended up in that alley amidst that snowstorm - that same one that was still raging outside - he considered, even for a brief moment telling her his predicament. Divulging his story. But that idea was banished as quickly as it had appeared. Maybe it was something about her, about her connection to his past, their childhood together at Hogwarts, his connection to the Magic World, being childhood enemies possibly? There was just something, _something_ that made him want her to not know how far he's fallen. To preserve some of the dignity he once had.

Of course, he did none of the sort - the dignity vanished into whatever hole his inheritance, name, contacts, status, and all else have gone. No, Draco Malfoy did what he did best: he insulted her. That he did, and did well, with expertise borne out of years of experience. The one skill that he had honed to perfection was the skill of being nasty.

Granger was observing him. She sat across the table, lips pursed into an inclined line - almost a frown but not quite just yet, eyes scanning him up and down. Probably writing remarks in that overactive brain of hers. Was it pity in her expression? Or calculation? He couldn't tell. Odd, she used to be such an open book. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, it was like being in a healer's office under a body tissue scan spell. But the disconcertment also came from the lack of knowing what had occurred yesterday.

He did not recall much from last night and the information that Granger disclosed was precious little. She stumbled over him in London - she said - didn't see him under the snow, hurt her leg, apparated him sidealong to her apartment. She didn't specify how she cleaned him, and she also didn't explain how or why he awoke naked. But that was not too difficult to deduce. She washed his stinking self - hopefully with one of the housekeeping spells. Slept next to him and shared her body heat. Really, he owed a life debt.

His clothes were gone. She probably threw them out. His wand was in the inner jacket pocket… if it was gone… Draco chewed on his lower lip. No point wondering about that. He could retrieve it later. It was unlikely that the rubbish would be taken out during the zenith of storm. With his own clothes gone, he now sat in a thin long-sleeved shirt too wide for him, trousers too short on his legs, and_ her_ socks. Sterched a bit too tight on his feet. He was not the dignified Draco Malfoy of the old days. No, he was a charity case.

One of the few things that comforted him in the last couple of years was that no-one knew him. Or rather, none of the people who knew him saw what has become of him. His pride, in at least one little way, was unhurt. Now even that was gone. Perhaps that's why he was being so formidable - an attempt to preserve that little of his old life that was left to him. Maybe it was also resulting from the bitterness borne out of mourning. Now that his secret was out.

And still he was glad to be alive.

Granger saved his life, she checked on him, fed him, _bathed_ him (_oh Merlin, I hope it was a housekeeping spell_), and what was his response? Not the thanks she deserved. His stomach was full, he was draining his second mug of tea, and he was so pleasantly warm. The blanket is one prospective haven. And she even gave him the seat closer to the radiator. By all rights, she was close to a saint. A grumpy saint, but he was probably to blame for the grumpiness. He chewed on his lip, eyes darting back and forth across the wooden kitchen floor. He ought to apologise, to express some gratitude - but something was keeping his mouth shut.

Granger broke the silence. "You can stay here." She asserted. It was an offer, he knew. It was the way she spoke (to him?): with authority and coldness. Quite the change from the Hogwarts years. Then she was bossy, not authoritative. She was bookish but never cold. "I do not have a second bedroom, but the couch should suffice for now," she continued, indicating toward the living room. "You can stay as long as it takes for you to get back on your feet. I will help where I can, of course, if you let me. But over time you might need to let me know how I can help…" She trailed off, giving him a McGonagall-esque pointed look. _Fine, then._ It was a condition, subtle but clear. He swallowed. Without his snarky comments the air was quickly turning awkward. He better say something. Quick.

She was sipping at her second mug as well, expectantly raising her eyebrows at him. An offer? A deal? A contract? The smell of bergamot was hanging heavy in the air between them. A pleasant and rich scent, but also a choice that does not require much creativity. Earl Grey, what a classic choice. _Very Granger,_ Draco assessed. Simple but agreeable. The cream walls, though - not agreeable in the slightest. _Better than brick walls in an alley_, reminded him a voice. That was certain.

He looked out of the window._ Fuck. Here it comes._ Draco swallowed, pursed his lips and lifted his gaze to the bushy haired woman. "Thank you, Granger," he said, trying to keep a level voice, "your hospitality would be appreciated for the time being."

She nodded slowly, eyeing him with a slight frown. _Was that an odd response?_ He wondered. Seemed well in line with how he was educated. Perhaps she was not used to his amiable side. Besides, speaking like this charmed the Muggle women in pubs. "Right…" she drawled. "Perhaps I should show you around a bit."

She turned in her chair, stood up and wobbled toward the the kitchen cabinets, opening one by one, and listing their contents. Draco decided against telling her that he could explore on his own and sat mindlessly listening to her detailed accounting of kitchen supplies.

* * *

Malfoy is strange, there is no doubt about that in Hermione's mind. _First he behaves like a chav, then he is unresponsive, and suddenly he sounds like he walked out of a Brontë novel._ Hermione frowned to herself, pulling another cabinet door open.

"… This is where you can find all the root vegetables: onions, carrots, potato, garlic as well. Right now I have two parsnips in here too. Behind there are bags of rice, pulses and such, but they are to refill the jars that I already showed you. Everything you find here you can use. "

She looked at Malfoy, who sat still sat sombre and proper in the huge blanket. The image of the pensive nobleman was entirely ruined by her fluffy purple socks on his feet, poking from under the blanket. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"So that's it for the kitchen. The difficult part for you would be that it's completely Muggle operated. I can teach you how to use the devices," she told him, and after a moment added: "but it's probably best if you do so under supervision the first time."

Hermione waited. Malfoy was still wearing that vacant look that he probably thought passed for wistfulness. "Understood?" She asked impatiently.

Malfoy graced her with a nod. She exhaled sharply through her nose. She might just punch him a second time.

Hands on her hips, she sucked at her teeth, looking down upon the huddled figure. "Right, shuffle along then," she ordered before leaving the kitchen.

"This is the couch," she announced as the blanket-man wordlessly followed her into the living room. "Here is a bookshelf, at the bottom you will find non-fiction, at the top fiction. Alphabetically ordered by author and year of publication. This black thing is called a television. Don't poke it, it's like a fragile window. It shows very long moving photographs with sound. I will explain later."

She motioned to her wine-rack. "Alcohol," she announced, "I'm not much of a drinker myself, but I have it for guests. Try not to consume it all." Another blank look from Malfoy. _What is up with him?_

"Right…" she drawled, pinching her lips to one side. "Guest toilet through here," she ushered him toward a door near the entrance to the apartment, swinging it widely open. "You will be using this one for everything other than shower. Unfortunately, I only have the one en suite."

Malfoy gave another graceful nod. _Twat._ Even with the long tangled hair and mess of a beard he managed to look somewhat dignified. She swung her mass of hair as she span away from him and down the corridor, huffing in frustration. She wasn't even sure he was doing something to agitate her at the moment, but this new demeanour felt… mocking.

Maybe she was just allergic to Malfoy. Maybe she still couldn't look him in the face after seeing him in his birthday suit. Whichever it was, Hermione knew she was stuck with him for a while. _It's the right thing to do,_ she reassured herself,_ he has nowhere to go._

The curiosity to what has happened to him was intolerable, though. If there was one thing that Hermione hated, it was not knowing. Malfoy's most annoying attribute to date was, then, his for once inconvenient silence. _What on earth happened to him?_ _Couldn't he at least use magic to clean himself?_ She wondered. Which reminded her…

"I found your wand, by the way," she announced to him as she lead him through her bedroom to the en suite. "It was deep in your jacket, I barely found it." She withdrew the object from her pocket and held it out to him. Malfoy just stared at it for a long moment, appearing deep in contemplation. Hermione looked right, left, back at him. Malfoy was still staring at her outreached arm with a contemplative look. _Maybe the explanation is simple_, Hermione wondered,_ Malfoy just lost his mind and decided to live on the streets of London?_

That was the moment he reached out and gently took the wand back, letting it disappear with his thin arm back into the blanket. "Thank you, Granger." He said. First time with a hint of emotion. First time it felt genuine.

Hermione nodded. _Alright._

She finished showing him around the apartment, explained light switches and how to use them, including a demonstration that was a little bit anti-climactic. She was used to Arthur Weasley's appreciation of Muggle artefacts, she supposed. As the lights turned on, Malfoy merely looked up, regarded the bulb, and looked back at her. She handed him bedding for the couch, and then levitated a pillow and duvet from a cupboard at the top of her dresser, sending them to the couch.

_Why is he so silent?_

"Do you have anyone you want to contact?" She asked.

Malfoy swallowed. "I'm afraid there is no one I can contact," he responded.

Hermione bit her lip, standing across from Malfoy still with his bedding in arms. He regarded her back._ He knows I have questions but refuses to answer._

"What now?" She finally asked.

"I don't know," he responded, "what now?"

She licked her lips. "We will need to get you new clothes, but it's Christmas day, so we will have to wait for tomorrow."

He nodded.

"Do you have any money?" She asked, unlikely.

"About two quid, but I believe you threw them out with the clothes," the blonde responded.

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line. "They were beyond repair," she excused herself.

Malfoy lifted an eyebrow, "And here I was expecting you to scrub them for me," he sighed, sarcastic.

_Did he just make a joke?_ Hermione frowned. No, this was way beyond computation for now. This day was so strange already.

"Well, I'll have to get you some new clothes," she continued, ignoring the last comment. "And probably a haircut."

"Oh, but that would be such a shame," he moaned, "we were just starting to match in style."

_Ah, he's back._ Hermione gave him an icy glare. "Fine, no haircut then."

"Wait!"


	4. Chapter 3: Let's celebrate

A/N: Hi everyone! I would like to offer my apologies for the long delay between updates. It is a stressful time for everyone now and I am somewhat behind on my writing. I have not mentioned it before, but I am also writing a PhD thesis alongside this, so it is sometimes difficult to keep everything going well at once... especially with a pandemic going on. I will try to keep updates more regular and I would still like to say cheers for the continued support to HollyGlen, and for the kind comments of Elisablackcat and Lizzy-Fiction-89. Please leave reviews, I love to read your thoughts!

I would like to make a note about the timeline: I am bumping things up a decade from the canon (though I am trying to stick to it as much as possible and work within the world Rowling has created). So, for us Hermione was born on 19 Sept 1990. We are about to be in 2017… So she is 28 at the beginning of this tale. Draco was born on 5 June 1990. I had them both born 1990 to make it easier on myself to keep up with the chronology. I am a qualitative researcher when I do not write random fics, so I get confused with numbers. To try to keep things consistent here, I changed this a little bit... I apologise that it does not make too much sense with the letter to Hogwarts thing - but, deep in the adult lives of Draco, Hermione, and the rest, little of that matters. Just go along with it?

I hope you are staying safe, and without much further ado, please accept the new chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Let's celebrate**

Molly Weasley was just starting to set out the food when Hermione arrived. Some items were already standing on the dining table clad in a heating spell, while other foods were on the counters of the small kitchen, spread across an array of colourful mismatched dishes throughout the kitchen, waiting to be fed to the hungry guests. There were roasted vegetables braised in duck fat, creamy potatoes with a crispy skin, parsnips and carrots in butter. Steak and ale pies, and a giant turkey were cooking in the family's extra large oven, and plates of food ranging from peas to pumpkin mash, to rich sauces and pig in blankets were arrayed on the table in the Weasley's more spacious living room. Molly Weasley herself was standing near a pot, stirring a potato and leek soup while a sharp kitchen knife hovered near her, slicing hot loaves of bread into thick steaming slices to accompany the soup. Plates with butter stood nearby, making Hermione's mouth water.

Her stomach growled, announcing her presence.

"Hermione, dear!" Molly called out to Hermione, walking away from the soup that kept stirring itself. "How have you been?" The older woman embraced her.

"I've been well, thank you, Mrs Weasley," Hermione responded, smiling. "How are you doing?"

"Great, dear," Molly responded, "I've been quite hectic here, feeding so many mouths is not an easy job, you see. Why don't you give me a hand here? Together we will be able to set this up nicely before all the grandchildren arrive."

That was true enough. There were 19 Weasleys to count, including all the new ones. A total of 11 adult children and their partners, Arthur and Molly, and a grand total of 6 grandchildren - _for now_. The children ranged from talkative, overly-inquisitive 6 year-olds to bubbling potatoes under the age of one.

Indeed. This was the most peaceful time at the Burrow. Most of the Weasleys have not arrived yet, probably running late because of their children or simply because they were not great at waking up from naps (_yes, I am referring to Ron_). The one non-resident Weasley that had already arrived was immersed in tasks around the house - preparing for the fiasco to come. Charlie was at the garden helping Arthur set it out for the children to play (_to give the adults a bit of a break_, Hermione mused). Hermione walked past them on her way into the house. Charlie was weaving atmosphere control spells, shielding from bugs, and all other matters that could be left to his expert hands. They both greeted Hermione and Arthur stopped her to ask about headbands that sound music. Ginny brought one about the house when she and Harry visited, he explained, and said it would _connect _to his WizPhone, but by Merlin he could not make it sound again.

And how did these earmuffs make music, anyway? He inquired.

As Hermione helped Molly finalise the kitchen affairs, she could not help but admire the spellwork of the witch. There were multiple pots hovering in the air, spoons scooping cooked dishes onto plates that transported themselves out of cupboards. Used dishes and utensils were washing and drying themselves, while Hermione was manually setting out cutlery onto the adults' table. A kiddy corner set out for Victoire, Dominique, and little Molly was already fully equipped, and ancient-looking tall chairs (probably from the times when Bill was a baby) stood ready at the adults' table for Freddie, Jamie, and Lucy.

There were few times when Hermione regretted her decision to not learn house keeping spells: when the water cylinder ran out of warm water and she had to wash dishes in cold water, when she was in bed and needed to get out to flick the Muggle light switch off, and when she needed to cook dinner and the water just wouldn't boil and she was so so hungry. There were spells for all that, but since she erased her parents memories, she decided that all she could do to keep that part of herself - and her parents - untainted, is to keep her home as Muggle as possible. But by all that was good and magical, yesterday was a whole new level of regrets. _Not using these spells is different from not knowing them, _she reasoned with herself, _perhaps its time I learn them… for… extraneous types of situations._

"Whatever happened to your knee?" Molly inquired after a short bout of some small-talk about work, news, and grandchildren. Hermione was grateful that the topic of her personal life did not come up. She was not yet ready to discuss it. She gathered that many were aware.

"I stumbled yesterday," She explained, "Fell on ice and bruised it"

"Well, you should be more careful, dear," Molly responded, already walking toward her potions and magical remedies cupboard, she pulled a bright purple bottle from a high shelf, "Ah, there it is, this should help with the pain," she explained walking back to Hermione to hand her the bottle, "Now, let's take a look at the bruise, shall we?"

Hermione sat across from Molly on one of the kitchen chairs and pulled her dress to reveal her knee. It was not looking good and she knew it. An ugly red and purple ran across her knee, travelling down her shin. She selected black stockings and a dress that went half way down her shin for that exact reason - to hide the monstrous contusion - but to no avail. Even the glamour charms that she knew did not do to hide it well enough; when she cast the spells the bruise transformed into a red and purple Picasso piece instead of appearing like the rest of her skin. The damaged area was too big for her skill level - and besides, Hermione's magical abilities specialised in whole other matters.

Hermione downed the contents of the bottle.

"This is looking quite irritated," Molly observed, "I can speed up the healing, but it will hurt. I suggest that you bite down on something, Hermione."

Hermione partly regarded what Molly said, the potion spreading a relaxing sensation of nonchalance across her body. She picked up a napkin and shoved it between her teeth.

"Holy dragon bogies!" she exclaimed when suddenly a wave of eye-watering pain hit her leg, napkin flying from her mouth, narrowly missing Molly's lap.

_Nonverbal spell, _a voice whispered past the haze, _she used a nonverbal…_

As the pain dulled - and her knee reconstructed itself - Hermione became aware of Molly speaking to her.

"- you should sit here for a while longer," she commanded, "and remember, the potion does not interact well with alcohol, so I wouldn't recommend any more than two glasses of wine."

Hermione dumbly nodded.

* * *

Minutes crawled by as the pain was growing lesser and lesser while her knee finished its restoration. Hermione was aware of Molly casting spells around the kitchen, of how she floated Christmas gifts from some hidden location toward the Christmas tree (George was reluctant to admit that he and Fred never found the store - he claimed that it was temporarily deposited in an alternate reality). Her eyes drifted to the Weasley family clock, which nowadays was filled to the brim with an array of ginger heads (and a few others), all pointing in different directions - and luckily, not a single one was looking at '_mortal peril_'. She startled slightly when an arrow moved, with tree heads jumping from _travelling_ to _home_. A pop outside announced Ginny, Harry, and little Jamie's arrival.

Seconds later a lean woman walked in, a bright smile on her lips, followed by a disheveled dark haired wizard with a sleepy toddler in his arms. The toddler blinked twice, staring into space, before giving the room a full show of his new set of teeth in a massive yawn. Little Jamie was unfortunate to have inherited Harry's hair, it appears. The mess of black hair on his head stood in all directions, creating some sort of a mock halo effect.

"Ginny, Harry!" Molly hurried toward her daughter and her husband, embracing both before kidnapping the child out of Harry's arms. "It is so wonderful to see you again, how was your trip?"

"It was great, mum," responded Ginny, "the Holyhead Harpies are making a great lead this season, and Jamie was enjoying the game too! He was pointing at the players, and I swear he was following the snitch better than the Montrose Magpies seeker. I think our little boy's got a career set ahead of him."

She tickled the belly of the toddler who giggled in response, "don't you? Don't you?"

"That's lovely, dear," Molly responded as she bounced the child in her arms, "why don't you get settled in, and Harry, you could tell me all about your new position at the Ministry, why don't you?"

Dutifully, Ginny sent her and Harry's gifts to the awaiting tree and Harry followed Molly starting to tell Molly about his promotion to Head of Auror Department and his last few weeks of the transition to the role as Robards was retiring. It was then when Ginny's eyes fell on Hermione.

The witch was positively beaming as she strode across the room to the still hazed Hermione. "And what is up with you?" she gracefully dropped herself into the chair next to Hermione.

"Mmm… forgot to get Jamie a gift,"Hermione drawled, before lifting a finger and announcing, "until yesterday! I got this thing that will help his teeth."

_I feel odd, _she thought. Ginny knitted her eyebrows at her, "that's very good actually," she grinned, "he's having some trouble with the teeth - "

"Shhh!" Hermione put her finger up toward Ginny's mouth, nearly inserting it into her nose. She looked quizzically onto her finger. That's odd. _Anyway…_ "The best part of it, is that it's educational! It's a pyramid that he needs to assemble, you see. Multiple colours, different sizes. It will develop his logical thinking and cognitive skills."

"You alright, Hermione?" Ginny asked, looking worriedly at her and glancing toward Molly and Harry - both immersed in chatter.

"Yeah, better than ever!" Hermione announced, perplexed. She does feel good, why is the witch so inquisitive all of the sudden?

"Did you drink anything before you came here?" Ginny inquired carefully.

"No, just tea all day… and just now that wondrous purple unlabelled thingie," Hermione responded. _Thingie… thingie… yup, she couldn't find a better word for it, _"anyway, so I found that game for Jamie, just on time, I'm telling you. I managed to get it right before they closed all the checkouts! Then I got lost on my way to the apparition point… oh, I was in Muggle London. So anyway, you know how most streets look pretty much the same there? Oh, you might not. When was the last time you've been to Muggle London?"

A pop sound came from outside, followed by the sound of greetings and conversation. Hermione ignored it. There was so much to tell. _Why am I telling all of this?_

Ginny, meanwhile, was checking the bottle that Hermione downed earlier. She lifted and sniffed the bottle, eyes widening.

"So, there I am - walking around London, no clue where I am, my WizNav glitching in the storm," Hermione continued as Ginny's eyes drifted back to her, "when I fall over this mount in the snow! I thought I broke my kneecap into bits… Anyway, it's fine now. I think. Your mom is a magician… wait. She literally is!" Hermione laughed loudly.

"Oh Merlin," whispered Ginny, looking back toward her mother.

"Then - " Hermione stopped abruptly, "the gifts are all under the tree, by the way." A confirmatory nod from Ginny. _Good, she knows in case I forget. _

"I saw that I tripped over a person! Could you believe it!" Hermione laughed. Why is it funny? Was it funny? "He was almost frozen."

Ginny's eyes were the size of plates._ They're the same colour,_ Hermione reflected,_ not like the dishes._

"Hermione - " Ginny said before getting interrupted.

"Don't worry, don't worry. He's alive," she waved around a dismissive hand, "freaking alive and kicking and annoying as ever. I spent too much time with your husband in my childhood, I reckon," she continued bored. Why was she telling this story? Oh, yes!

"So, my knee!" she announced with enthusiasm again while Ginny was nodding to her, holding her hands (_since when?)_, eyes slightly too open with alarm - _she wants the rest of the story…_ Hermione concluded in satisfaction, and continued: "I managed to apparate back home but my knee was killing me, and I took that homeless wizard with me too - such a weight! So I took paracetamol, but it didn't help much - do you know what that is? Anyway, I took that medicine only after I washed him - _by hand! _I should have learnt your mum's spells when she offered to teach. Because he _stunk. _Also he was too cold. I needed to get him warm quickly, you see? Then I took a pain relief potion, but it only affected the symptoms. Maybe there was something really wrong with the leg?"

Ginny kept looking at her. _Won't she respond? _Hermione wondered. "Was there?" She asked again.

"Oh, I don't know," Ginny responded, startled again. "Is the wizard okay?"

_Why about Malfoy again? _"Yeah, defrosted now. I kinda didn't want him to die. That would have been uncool, right? Even though he was such as arse in school, I needed to save him…" She lost track of her thoughts. The clock was moving again… actually, it was quite mesmerising.

"Hermione?" Ginny waved a hand before her face, and Hermione looked back at her. She liked Ginny's new hairstyle. The short pixie cut suit her very nicely. Brought out her cheekbones out more and put emphasis on her lips. Very flattering. She ought to tell her that.

"Who is the wizard you found?"

"Oh, him?" Hermione asked, what an odd question. She was telling her about the knee, Ginny really should learn to keep track of conversation topics, "just that pale rat, Malfoy."

Ginny's jaw fell open just as Ron and Padma made their appearance at the kitchen.

Molly and Harry with the baby went to greet the couple loudly, but Ginny urgently waved to Ron who kissed his mother on the cheek and excused himself.

"Merry Christmas!" He shouted as he approached them.

Hermione smiled widely. It is so nice to see old friends. She really did miss Ron. Maybe she will let him play chess with her… he likes chess.

"Ron, we have an issue," Ginny said, lifting the empty vessel of that marvellous liquid. She pointed at Hermione, who sat deeper in her chair, pasting a wide smile on her face. Suddenly, she felt quite drowsy. Very very comfy, in fact.

"Oh my," Ron peeped. Suddenly, Ron's fingers were opening her eyes which she didn't realise she had shut. Through the mist surrounding her mind she could hear Ginny and Ron conversing. Then there were footsteps, popping sounds outside again, another voice talking with Ginny and Ron, and footsteps leaving. Her eyelids felt so heavy and the chair was so comfy.

"Ah, the purple one?" Then there was a sound, a light, and the fog around Hermione seemed to be dissipating. She could see Ron flicking his fingers in front of her eyes, she tried to focus on them - a task becoming easier with every second that passed.

"Hermione?" He asked, she nodded. "You hear me?" she nodded again.

"The potion you took, Mum never used to do the demystifying spell after administering it." He explained. "I guess it's habit now. Fred and George used to get hurt a lot in our childhood - no wonder about that, I suppose - so this potion would dull the pain, make them happy for a while, and then they would go to sleep. I used to look forward to when that happened." Ron lifted his wand - Hermione's eyes tracked it in wonder - and mumbled a spell. She blinked twice, three times, feeling the fogginess dissipating further.

"Don't worry," Ron put a gentle hand on her shoulder and reassured her, "you'll feel more awake in a few minutes."

"Here you go, Hermione," Padma handed her a steaming cup of comforting java. Hermione gratefully took it.

"I will be back to check on you in a few minutes," Ron told her before taking Padma by the hand and walking with her back to Molly and Harry, who by this point were joined by George, Angelina, and their toddler Freddie. Freddie and Jamie loudly mumbled to each other, occasionally eliciting a high squeak.

A few minutes of silence passed when Ginny observed Hermione, and Hermione sipped her coffee.

"Were you delirious or was that all real?" Ginny finally broke the silence. _Oh goblin socks…_

"Mmm," mooed Hermione, "well, the knee was damaged, you know."

"So let me get that straight," Ginny pursued, "you forgot to get Jamie a gift - " nod " - rushed to get one in Muggle London - " sip, nod "- fucked up your knee tripping over a tramp - " incline of the head - " - then took him home - " nod nod " - and he was Malfoy!" Silence. Nod.

Ginny burst into a fit of laughter.

"Please, keep it together," Whispered Hermione, looking from side to side at the arriving guests.

"Oh Merlin, this is too good," Ginny's laugh slowed, instead giving way to a very wide grin, "and that part - about washing him? That's true as well?"

Hermione must have looked like she swallowed a lemon, because Ginny's fit of laughter renewed. Hermione decided to hobble away, leaving the laughing witch to catch her breath and then return to laughing some more.

* * *

As the evening went on, the pain in the knee went from the remainders of a stabbing pain to a dull ache and then to nothing at all. Aside from the unfortunate word diarrhoea that afternoon, the party went pretty well. George and Angelina congratulated Hermione with the launch of a new product and expressed their opinions on its functionality.

"I'd add a shielding charm," George voiced thoughtfully, "triggered with press and a word of one's choice," raising his left arm across his chest to demonstrate: right hand pressing the other wrist where the new product shone.

Hermione nodded, this was an idea, "I will keep that in mind for the next update. Perhaps a motion with the word?" Hermione flicked her wrist, demonstrating, "in case the other hand is occupied?"

After that, they chatted about the new products from the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, including the popularity of the notorious lime-a-pult app: a prank spell-app that shoots limes and other fruits from the WizPhone at your friends when they answer a call from you - the fruits disappear after a few minutes. Ron called her a few weeks back, and before she knew it a lime had hit her in the face and a banana and kiwi lodged themselves in her hair. Ron laughed to tears, while Hermione plotted her revenge. This exact conversation lead Ron to their corner of the sofa.

It was her opportunity. Hermione thanked Ron for the medical aid and he grinned and said, "not at all, it's my speciality, after all." True enough, true enough. _But my speciality is being inventive._

As she walked away, Hermione stuck a colourator-bamboozle on his sweater set to magenta… in an hour Ron's entire body would be that colour. Hermione sniggered to herself as she made her way through the crowd.

* * *

Christmas parties at the Weasleys' were always an occasion Hermione treasured. There was always a lot of great food, conversation, gifts, and booze. Best of all, she got to catch up with the Weasleys' she saw less frequently. Bill and Fleur still lived in the Shell Cottage down south with their two daughters, Victoire and Dominique. Victoire seemed to particularly like Hermione because every now and again she would come up to her and ask her an obscure question. Just then, as Hermione was chatting with Bill about goblin loan regulations, Hermione felt a tag at her dress: "what are the migration habits of unicorns?" Victoire inquired. _So down to business, _Hermione thought.

"Well, they stay to the north of England in the summer months because of the heavy rainfall there, but in winter they come up to Scotland for the weather. They prefer cold and moist condition," Hermione responded. Victoire nodded seriously and walked off, her little shadow Dominique following. It's been like that all evening.

"You're an endless resource for knowledge to her," Bill explained, smiling. Wanting to learn is understandable, Hermione smiled back.

George and Angelina were the other couple of Weasleys that Hermione kept in close contact with, other than Ron and Ginny. George's skills in inventive magic were a great asset for Hermione's involvement in WizPhones. They set up a partnership with the WWW almost as soon as the first WizPhone hit the market and other than during the occasions when limes were hurled at her face, Hermione was delighted at the collaboration.

Charlie was a harder to catch despite his recent move back to Britain. After years in the wild, he decided to work with Magical Creatures on the island, working to conserve the natural magical areas during summers. However, most of the year, he spent working in Hogwarts teaching children about the animals and their care. Christmas was one of the only opportunities for them to sit and talk, though to be honest, Hermione knew Charlie much less than the rest of the Weasleys.

After the war, Hermione worked in Percy's department of Muggle intelligence at the Ministry. Audrey and Hermione shared a desk space when for the first two years after Hermione returned to her education. The analysis that the department provided in a comprehensive report showed that the misunderstanding of Muggles and their culture was one of the prevalent causes of the Second Wizarding War. One of the strategies should be to improve the knowledge of the Muggle world, combat the fear, ignorance, and emerging superiority. Percy was now working on the arrangement of yearly field trips into the Muggle world for Hogwarts students - but the logistics as well as the legal insurance requirements were tough to battle. Audrey, now Percy's wife and mother of his daughter Molly, moved to work with Hermione shortly after the launch of the WizPhone.

They were just chatting, when Molly ran by, almost knocking her mother. Then there was a loud thud and wailing from one of toddlers. Freddie had knocked himself over and was now requesting Angelina's comfort. If not for years of practice, claustrophobia would certainly have set in. So, no, Christmas at the Weasleys' was never peaceful, Hermione reflected, as the thick buzz of conversation was obscuring the wizarding Christmas music playing on the radio.

"Alright, alright!" shouted Ginny, "Everyone under the age of ten to the garden now!" She ordered, her voice ringing loudly over the mayhem.

As the squeaking children piled out of the door, Ginny grabbed Hermione by the elbow and pulled her toward the door as well. "You too," she told her.

Hermione had just enough time to get her jacket and have her red wine glass refilled before Ginny and Hermione were standing in the cool fresh air watching over the playing children in the distance. It was remarkably quieter here, with no more than occasional squeals and ringing laughter sounding from afar.

Ginny smiled at Hermione from her right, "so…" she drawled, "wanna tell me the full story?"

Hermione sighed and nodded.

* * *

Draco was alone.

The house was quiet, except for the distant whizz of a faraway vehicle on the icy road near the apartment complex. The wind still blew savagely outside, occasionally rattling a window. A shadow of music could be heard playing somewhere almost too far to notice at all. Most non-magical folk were indoors, celebrating the holiday with their families. Draco supposed that many would have cancelled any planned visits due to bad weather, opting instead to stay home, in a close circle. Magical folk were a different story, but Draco cared little for their celebrations.

Draco had no circle to celebrate with after all, but he was happy to meet the holiday indoors. His best friends, to keep him company, are the radiators that kept emitting that lovely scalding heat. And to top things further, there was no Granger bossing him around.

This morning was exhausting. Draco was fatigued, probably from nearly freezing to death, but also from the detailed micro-management of the witch in whose apartment he was staying. The tiredness could have also been caused by the effort of coming to terms with and comprehension of the change in his life. Not that he was complaining. This was by far the best afternoon he's had in the last half year. Even if he had to sit through Granger's insistence on listing every household item she owned that morning. It strongly reminded him of History of Magic classes back in Hogwarts.

He was stretched out on the couch, sipping his fifth tea of the day, huddled in the blanket that he decided was his cocoon - he would remain in it until he re-emerges as the beautiful butterfly of old - the dashing Malfoy that he was before luck turned on him. No, since Granger left that afternoon, everything was just perfect. He was a burrito of comfy-ness. Not that a Malfoy would ever use such an expression, of course, but what harm could it do if it was just in his head?

Life was great.

Granger left early in the afternoon. She was done ushering him around the house and explaining everything to the detail - including which way to press a handle on a door - around mid-morning. Then she left him in the living room, muttering something about schizophrenia and secluding herself in her bedroom for about two hours before re-emerging dressed like a cone. It was hard to describe why Granger chose that particular combination of clothes - lack of style? Lack of _caring_? She was wearing a form-fitting burgundy dress that went below the knee, looking like something a respectable witch would wear to court with the right hat and shoe-wear. Or on other official business. But Granger was going to a Christmas party at the Weasley's little house they called a Burrow… In any other circumstances Draco would make a joke of that, but given that the Malfoy Manor and all his family heirlooms stood under barricade of near-impenetrable magic, he repressed that need. The choice of dress did not seem at all appropriate for an afternoon meal and celebration, but it was fully ruined by ill-fitting dark tights and low heels. Any witch should have known that a dress that ends under the knee must expose the legs below and make them appear longer through a high heel. Any wizard certainly knew that if he had eyes, in any case. She suddenly looked shorter and stumpy, instead of attempting to accentuate whatever attributes she may have. No, she did not do herself any favours. But Draco held his tongue. Instead, he raised an eyebrow at her, and smirked.

"Catching some dinner tonight, Granger?"

She looked revolted - he certainly had a strong effect on her. "As I told you before, I am going to attend a dinner. Just make sure my house is still here when I return."

He put an expression of utter solemnity. "I will guard it with my life, Granger." He straightened from his slouch on the couch and put his hand to his chest. "Rest assured, for I will not let any harm come to it."

She rolled her eyes at him and walked out of the room.

It was strange. Wrong even, to try to be civil with Granger - let alone charming. Mocking was much easier and felt natural, like a rhythm they once had which was so simple to fall back into. Draco contemplated this later that evening, laying on the sofa that will be his bed. Trying to be genuine, open, _kind - _it was fucking weird and awkward and uncomfortable. He was awkward in expressing his gratitude for staying in her home, she was awkward in receiving his acceptance. Now that he thought about it, she never did look him in the eye once. Was she truly so disgusted by his presence?

His attempt to be more civil appeared to have made her as uncomfortable as it made him. She looked even more guarded and wary than when he was being crude and pestering. This just wasn't their dynamic, he supposed. So he mocked her and she relaxed. What an utter circus this was, his life. Taunting and contempt were expected of him while straying from that formula was making people cautious. What a joke. But he was to blame for it, from years of earning his repute.

What made sense to do now was to return to the old dynamic. Mocking comment, an insult, and a charming smile. That made her relax. He was acting as expected, and if that made her more comfortable, Draco would resume as per status quo. That was easier for him anyway. The least he could do is to be witty - not that that was a problem for him… Least of all when he was eager to ensure that he would not get kicked out for bad behaviour.

What a fine line to tread - insulting Granger enough to keep her feeling familiar, but not too much to get completely on her nerves. Well, Draco has done worse than engage in a battle of wits to survive.

Before Granger left, she called him in to the kitchen to introduce him a microwave. To reheat some leftover food she had left. He listened to her explanation of the various buttons, and reflected, should he tell her he has been in Muggle kitchens before?

"Why are you living outside of the magical community?" he asked her, looming over the brown haired woman who was pointing at the defrosting button of the device.

Granger looked up at him, her eyes calculating again, "I choose to." She answered after a brief moment.

_You don't say, _he rolled his eyes. "Fine, why do you choose to then?" he asked.

She pursed her lips - an expression he was increasingly getting to used to seeing on her face. "I have to leave, otherwise I am going to be late," she evaded, checking a magical watch on her wrist. "Do you need something to keep you entertained?"

She was looking toward the bookshelf.

Draco considered for a moment. "Do you have Netflix?'

Granger's eyes looked like they would pop out of their sockets. That should definitely go into his favourite memories file.

* * *

Hermione and Ginny stood in the garden, looking toward the horizon in contemplation.

"So he's back from whatever paradise he was at?" Ginny pressed.

"Honestly, I doubt it was any paradise," Hermione responded, "and if there was one, it didn't last too long. I think he spent this time in England, but in the Muggle world."

"Malfoy? With Muggles?" Ginny knitted her brows and shook her head. "Hard to imagine…" She then glanced at Hermione thoughtfully, "do you remember what the scandal was about?"

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, "something about reparations for the war crimes of Lucius Malfoy." She bit her lip, wrecking her brain to recall events from years ago. She remembered that she was setting out to the bank when everyone seemed to be talking about the Daily Prophet headline, but she was so nervous for the investment meeting that she did not read the article beyond the headline. _Besides, it's Malfoy, _she remembered thinking, _whatever trouble he's in, he'll sort it out._

But he did not. This much was apparent.

"Wasn't it full seizure of assets?" Ginny interrupted her thought process, "I think they found some Dark Artefacts in the Malfoy estate and launched an investigation. Hm, now that I think about it, I wonder what they found."

Hermione pursed her lips, that was true enough. There was that newspaper and nothing after that. If that's the case, the investigation should have been closed by now…

"It's a bit odd," Hermione agreed, "They usually report the seizure and disposal of Dark Artefacts, it's the law."

It was Ginny's turn to shrugged her shoulders, "we probably missed the announcement then," she proposed. "Still, it's weird that he's homeless now. I thought they'd have some accounts abroad."

Yes, something about this smelt very fishy.

"Well, let me know what you find out," Ginny said. "But for now, I've got monumental news!"

Hermione's jaw dropped, "are you…?"

"No, no!" Ginny waved her hands, "Well, yes. But don't tell anyone, it's too early. But the news is even bigger than this! Charlie is dating someone! But you must swear to Merlin not to tell anyone."

* * *

No one knew who was Charlie's passionate love, but the news spread like fire across the Weasley family. It was clear that Charlie was not yet ready to bring the lucky witch or wizard - or Muggle - home, but after so many years of not having any romantic interests, every corner of the house was filled with whispering witches and wizards. Until, of course, Ron suddenly turned bright magenta pink.

Hermione was feeling very giddy as the evening draw to a close, holding on Ginny, hooked by their elbows and giggling.

"_Your _loofah?" Ginny was doubling over, tears streaming as she laughed.

"A-ha!" Hermione laughed, dropping to the floor alongside Ginny.

"And then you slept next to him?" Ginny continued laughing, turning toward Hermione and lifting her hand to point at Hermione. "You would have been considered lucky by any Slytherin fourth year, when we were in Hogwarts."

"Alas," Hermione shook her head, "I missed my Slytherin popularity by over a decade."

Ginny and Hermione kept laughing.

"Okay, okay," Ginny announced, straightening, "You've gotta do it." She pulled herself up, offering a hand to the still sat on the floor Hermione.

"It's time," she said with conviction.

Moments later, they were standing behind Mrs. Weasley, patting her on the shoulder.

"Say, Mrs Weasley," Hermione started awkwardly. "Could you teach me that spell you use for dish washing? The enchanted sponge?"

Ginny snickered from behind her.


	5. Chapter 4: The Good Place

A/N: Wow, it's been a while since the last update. I have nothing to say for myself other than life, conferences, academia, and my cat have all been demanding my attention. But I'm back to writing and we can continue where we left off. I hope you will stick with me and this story through our ups and downs... Special thanks for editing to my friend the nincompoop. You know who you are :)

* * *

Chapter 4: The Good Place

Hermione was still giggling when she entered her apartment later that night. Well, stumbled back in, would be more accurate. She shushed herself for absolutely no reason, continuing to giggle mirthfully.

You can always rely on the Weasleys to throw a good party, she observed while fighting her way out of her travel robes. She very nearly stumbled over her large bag of gifts which rested at her feet, prompting her to laugh even harder.

She and Ginny had reverted into what she supposes would have been their teenage selves, if not for the war. Immature, carefree, and gleefully silly. Hermione drank, partied, laughed with friends, and turned Ron magically pink. At some point late in the evening Harry magnified the sound of his WizPhone, playing Muggle classics. _Dancing in the Moonlight_ sounded throughout the garden, followed by the _Dancing Queen _and many more that sent Hermione into a spell of nostalgia. She looked up to the moon, wondering how Christmas was on the south hemisphere. Crookshanks must be enjoying some grilled fish on the beach, she mused to herself, a small smile cresting her lips.

After the toddlers were put to bed, Hermione and the rest played a few games of exploding snap for the good old times. She would have likely lost half her hair if not for the WWWs surprisingly conscientious face-shielding spell. Well, conscientious was perhaps too generous a term. It would have been conscientious if it did not redirect the hit at other players. With so many active shields, every explosion bounced until it ended up lighting someone's dress on fire, hitting walls and rugs, or like that one time - finding its way into Arthur Weasley's hair. At any other time, this would caused some distress among the older witches and wizards, but at the end of a day spent mostly drinking, and with so many skilled witches and wizards in the room, Arthur simply patted it out and shot a jelly-legs hex at the baffled George. Then, everyone were graced with a display of Charlie rolling onto his back in laugher with butterbeer spurting from his nostrils.

Most surprisingly, among all the drunk adults, was that Ginny managed to keep up with the antics while fully sober. She carried an enchanted water glass around the room, convincingly getting giddier by the minute. In fact, Ginny managed to reach that same destination where Hermione arrived after three… four? Maybe five glasses of wine.

Yes, she was _classily smashed_, Hermione decided kicking off one of her shoes and in the process landing on her behind. She picked off her other shoe and tossed it at the rack. So what if she was a bit of a mess? She was a bit drunk, enjoyed a nice party, and there was no one here to see her anyway. She crawled on all fours snickering and attempting to get up when a voice startled her into the next life.

"Well, isn't this graceful?" mocked a figure from the doorway.

Hermione screamed, fumbling for her wand. _Shit,_ it was in the outer robe. She lunged for it.

"Ow! No need to shriek like a banshee," complained the potential assailant, putting his hands to his ears.

It was only when her wand was pointed at him, eyes widened, did her drunken mind start fumbling through its files. Right, fucking Malfoy. In her house. What a way to ruin a nice night.

That was also when she noticed his widened eyes, flared nostrils, and the funny lack of a wand in his hands. Instead, his arms were raised in a defensive stance, palms open wide at chest level.

She frowned, putting her wand down. Last time she checked in with Malfoy, this kind of situation would have led to a duel and the destruction of the better part of her furniture. Smoking dents in the walls and all that kind of crap. She crooked her head to the side, puzzled.

It was also only then that she noticed noise coming from her living room.

"Holy shirt-balls!" announced the TV.

How did she not notice this? She pulled herself back up to standing position with all the elegance she could muster given her state. Arching an eyebrow at Malfoy - who still stood alarmed in the doorway - she straightened her back and marched right past him into the living room.

She landed on the couch and grabbed for the popcorn. Not that she was hungry, but it was there. Besides, it was about making a point. _My property._

"It's kinda my bed, you know," the blonde figure plopped down beside her.

"No," she corrected him, looking to her left at the offending Malfoy, "it's my couch. You're using it as a bed."

He pinched his lips, huffed, and then crossing his arms across his chest, glaring at her from the corner of his eyes. "So much for hospitality," she heard him mutter under his breath.

Hermione settled in comfortably and looked at the screen. She has seen ads for this series before.

"Huh, that's ironic, _The Good Place_?" She asked Malfoy, pointing to the screen "Aren't you more of a Bad Place kind of person?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her, "that's exactly…" he trailed off. "No. Don't tell me you have never seen _The Good Place_," he looked at her half disbelieving, half accusing.

"Well, I have work to do - " she started.

"What's the point of all this Muggle…" he waved his hand around cutting her off, "…_flair_, if you do not avail yourself of one of the most well-crafted TV series to grace the magical or non-magical theatres?"

"Wow," Hermione leaning back, "Malfoy, I had not idea you felt so strongly about a TV series…"

"It is not a mere TV series, Granger," he continued in exasperation, "it is a discussion around philosophy, a discourse around the timeless significance of life, death, ethics and morals. It is a complex exploration of existentialism and nihilism, of human relations - "

"You're awfully sophisticated for a vagabond, aren't you?" she snorted. "Fine," she pulled her legs up, side-saddled on the sofa, "you convinced me."

He arched an eyebrow at her, "of what exactly?"

"Put on the first episode, I'll give it a go," she motioned to the TV, and when he didn't move she leaned in toward him and pointed at her wine rack, "and grab one of those bad boys. I assume you already know where the glasses are."

She settled back with the bowl of popcorn, pulled a blanket onto her lap and waited for Malfoy to fetch her some wine. It might not be that bad, him living here, if she gets him domesticated. As for now… She might be drunk, but that never stopped Hermione Granger from being as sharp as a thorn. He might give something away… and then she will solve this mystery of the darn Malfoy. If she gets just a hint out of him… let some detail slip. And some was well better than none at all.

* * *

Draco had a very pleasant day following Granger's departure to her party in the early afternoon. Once the door shut behind her, Draco sat and attentively listened for the familiar popping sound indicating apparition. He then sat for another two minutes to ensure that the hostile witch was indeed gone.

Satisfied with the silence and the nearly undetectable hum of life outside the apartment, Draco got off his new bed and started strolling around the house. It was predictably quaint and dull, Draco mused to himself, _an abode to fit the witch_. It was beyond evident that Granger put little to no thought into the design of her house. By this point in Draco's wandering of the Muggle world, he came to recognise the tell-tale signs of traditional Muggle bachlorette-eque British decor. The furnishing was usually old, decorative pieces were kept to the minimum, and there was an array of seemingly pointless objects laying around that occasionally would spring to life in unexpected ways. Granger's living room fit that criteria nearly to the mark, but for a series of familiar magical objects that intermingled with their Muggle counterparts. There was a large couch, a smaller swivel couch, a coffee table in between them, a bookshelf, a Television that projected footages that were not alike photographed theatre plays with sound. Muggles apparently created fake memories for each other's amusement, Draco was startled to find out about a year and a half before. Since then he got quite fond of the immediately accessible Muggle theatre. So the Television set, alongside the other inanimate inhabitants of the room were all enclosed in the life-draining cream coloured walls. At least this aspect of Granger remained consolingly predictable.

So it was: just three rooms, all plainly furnished, clean but with as little imagination as humanly possible, Draco rolled his eyes at the interior.

"Not even a vase to add character," he grunted to himself. But this was useful information. _Granger does not stay here often, _Draco reflected, peering into a strange box that looked like Muggle wiring and technological… _artefacts_, Draco raised an eyebrow at a mass of entangled wires. They had spells on them, he could feel, and upon closer inspection he could detect runes scattered among the mess. Puzzled, Draco set it down and continued scouting.

Indeed, he's seen houses like this before. Mostly among the young female university students that would invite him over for a night at a time. Those houses would usually be mostly barren in the communal areas and could rarely be described as well-kept. Granger's home was tidy. It was also quite obvious that she selected her own furnishing… though where she found such ancient items, he was unsure of. Draco wrinkled his nose at the age-stained coffee table. Well, beggars can't be choosers. And this wasn't even a metaphor.

Shrugging his shoulders Draco kept moving through the house.

Leaving the cream cage that Granger called living room behind, Draco dawdled into the minute kitchen and started rampaging through the cabinets. It would appear that the inhabitant of the apartment scantly cooked for herself, and if it was not the case, then she was less imaginative with her cooking than with her decor. The knives were left to dull and she didn't even appear to have a mixer.

Could it be that Granger had a partner that she spent most of her time with? That would explain the lack of homeliness, Draco thought to himself. Her partner must be the one cooking for the two.

It was not long before Draco detected a pile of old Daily Prophets and set himself up nicely to read with a hot mug of Earl Grey. He huddled into his blanket on his newfound bed and started shuffling through the titles.

"_WizPhones taking over Wizarding Britain" - _flashed the heading_ \- "with new Wizch_," screamed today's title in bigger letters. The image below was of an enchanted watch. "_Wizch?"_ Draco grunted, "really rolls of the tongue," he remarked to himself sarcastically.

"_Shacklebolt launches integration policy_," declared yesterday's paper, and under it a different story: "_Muggle obliviated following unprecedented gnome attack_."

"_Potter appointed Head Auror_", called another paper, and yet another: _"Forbidden forest still forbidden"_

_"Ghosts fight for haunting rights," _declared the Thursday issue, and Wednesday announced: "_Magical toddler turns Muggles into radishes."_

Most amusing of all was the story of the Muggle who stole a broom as a prank and accidentally flew it across Birmingham. The lad was captured and obliviated.

Three mugs and twelve newsletters later, Draco was convinced that too much has changed since his departure. He curled deeper into his blanket and sipped the comforting hot liquid.

He was gone for two years and in the meantime the Wizarding world launched into the biggest Muggle integration project since trains and cameras appeared in late 1800s. Apparently Shacklebolt had full departments preparing for this since the war ended. According to the Tuesday _Daily Prophet_, a full 20-year plan was published a year ago that day. The highlights were mentioned to include things like greater emphasis on Muggle studies education, occasional reporting on Muggle news, "Muggle-ysing" wizarding fashion, and most astoundingly, launching collaborations between magical and non-magical business ventures. Flipping through the pages he noted items like "Hogwarts field trips" to the Muggle world, Muggles married to wizards and witches telling of their experiences with the wizarding world, expansion of Muggle sections in book stores, workshops with Squibs, and so forth.

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, frowning. If there was anything that Draco learnt about Muggles during his two years among them, is that they never wasted an opportunity. While bringing the Muggle world into the magical was an acceptable strategy, he supposed. No doubt it would be quite a pain to execute, but Draco could see some value in it. But bringing in the private sector could lead to the revealing the magical community to Muggles. One, two Muggles in each company being aware of magic would lead to tens if not hundreds of Muggles looking for ways to harvest benefits from us. If not harvest _us._ Frowning, Draco tossed the newsletter away. _This would lead to no good_, he thought to himself.

_Well, that explains the title "Squibs appointed heads of magical relations", _Draco thought. _So_ _squibs are finally becoming a "valuable asset"… _he rolled his eyes.

Well, it's not like he could do something on that account. No doubt anyone opposing Shacklebolt's plan would be branded heretic in the post-war wizarding Britain anyway. _One way ticket to the Azkaban, much like you father?_

Setting such thoughts aside, Draco decided to focus on his knowledge of the Muggle world and seek out the entrance to the domain that the Muggles call Netflix. After fussing for a while with the remote control - a black plastic rectangle with soft buttons - and taking a break to make yet another tea mug, Draco finally managed to make the red letters appear across the screen. Feeling awfully pleased with himself, Draco sought out the TV series that he has been missing for the past six months on the streets. And since he's done so well, he decided to treat himself to some popcorn as well.

As he mentioned before, his evening was going splendidly before Granger crushed through the front door. She was giddy upon arrival, but that did not last long. Not that he was entirely surprised when a wand was pulled on him within their first 24 hours of co-habitation. He was expecting no less, but this… he can't say that it was entirely provoked. In fact, all it took was one very short mocking comment and he was facing a dangerous opponent, if he recalled correctly. It was unwise to battle a witch or wizard who has been drinking, he knew, but it was even more unwise to duel a renowned "war hero". Not to mention that he was wandless, and thus no better than a stark naked baby in combating her spells. Much like all this time in the Muggle world. No wand, no magic, no safety.

Thankfully, Granger decided not to hex his behind into the next century, but he noted that she was scary after a couple of drinks. Hair tossed around her face, an intimidating grin, and that glint back in her eyes. He had not realised how bleak she looked this morning until he saw her tonight - it seemed like some passion, spark, maybe simple lack of reserve - was back to her. Either way, he would not agitate drunk Granger, at least not while wandless, Draco decided, pulling the cork out of the wine bottle he selected after being commanded by Granger.

_Crazy witch,_ he thought to himself while pouring wine into two glasses.

He crushed back onto the couch next to the witch, handing her her glass and taking a hefty swing from his own. _One for the road_, he told himself. He would need it.

"Cheers," Granger said, eyes fixed on the screen.

Draco shrugged in response and settled himself in with his own blanket and nursed his glass. Although he has already watched this season, he was not opposed to repeating it. As long as Granger did not assault him, he was fairly happy.

It was odd to sit side by side with Hermione Granger. Draco kept sneaking sideways glances at the witch, partly expecting her to explode into a sea of angry pixies. The witch sat silently, eyes fixed on the screen in concentration, occasionally reaching for the popcorn or sipping wine. He studied her from the corner of his eye. Granger was clearly older than when he last saw her about four year prior. He ran into her in Flourish and Boltts one autumn afternoon when he was shopping for a birthday gift for his mother. They didn't speak then. Draco saw Granger across the shop, they exchanged an awkward nod of acknowledgement, and then she proceeded to hang herself off the arm of the arrogant halfwit and leave the store. The next time he saw her was in the morning of this very day, when he woke up naked next to her.

He wondered what her partner would think about that. Was she still with that blundering duffle-bag?

Stealing another glance of the witch, Draco thought back to that afternoon. She still looked girlish then, different from their Hogwarts years. It was almost comforting to see today's Granger resembling the Hogwarts one more than the bookstore-4-years-ago Granger. Nowadays, she filled in physically and always bore a serious expression. Well, aside from her grand entrance earlier that night.

"You're a bit like Eleanor," Granger spoke after a while, breaking his stream of thoughts.

Draco glanced at her, "what? Blonde?" he asked.

"No," she responded, "an arsehole."

Draco huffed in annoyance. "How very observant," he said drily, before adding "and _you_ are quick to judge and sure of your infallible righteousness," he accused.

Her head whipped to the side, glaring at him, "I've got years of experience to draw on," she remarked in an acidic tone. _Bringing school up? _Draco thought, _how mature._

Draco pointed to the screen, "seeing someone is not knowing them," he retorted wistfully, "one episode and you decide you know Eleanor. Things may be more complex than the black and white dichotomies that your Gryffindor mind is used to operate in."

Granger's eyes narrowed dangerously and Draco realised his mistake.

_Fuck._

He quickly yet elegantly, for a person huddled in a blanket, picked himself off the couch and drifted toward the kitchen. He hoped that Granger registered his flight as a dramatic exit, or at least a nonchalant move to get some wine.

Granger _was not_ cunning! Granger was far from a master of wordplay, from a manipulative trickster. She was _never_ strategic. Granger _was not _any of those things, and that is why he did not expect to find himself backed into a corner. She spoke straight… _She didn't have a bone of deception in her body_, Draco complained to himself. Granger was decidedly_ not a Slytherin. _But right now, on that sofa, she was.

_It seems that I am not the only one who has changed, _Draco thought to himself sourly.

The terms of the game changed rather quickly, he observed. But he must not tarry. He must not let Granger have the upper hand. He picked the bottle of wine and made his leisurely way back to the living room. Draco Malfoy, whatever the situation, would not be outsmarted by repartee. She may have drawn him to say exactly what she wanted, but he knew what she was after and he was not going to give it to her.

He sat down on the sofa and re-filled the half empty glasses, trying to project calmness itself under her calculating gaze.

He licked his lips, _this is a game I've been bred to play, _he reminded himself.

Pasting his famous smile onto his lips, crooked with the slightest hint of mockery, Draco handed Granger her glass.

She smiled coldly back. "You were going to tell me how things are not black and white in your world, Malfoy," she prompted him, "do enlighten me."

Draco pressed his lips into a wide smile that did not reach his eyes, "Well, nights are dark, days are light, Granger," he began.

Her gaze did not falter, "and you would tell me that your nights are all in hues of grey?"

Draco tilted his head to the side looking upward, still smiling "filled with stars, the moon, enchanted fireflies and all that."

She imitated his smile, a disconcerting sight. "Ah, so in the darkness of your soul you have some light," she concluded.

"You wound me," Draco mockingly pressed a hand to his chest, "in this analogy I am the day, with mere specks of darkness, shadows falling from trees and flowers protecting from the harsh sun, locked chests keeping treasures safe…" he trailed off.

Granger smiled ruefully, eyes glinting. With growing horror, Draco was coming to the realisation that drunken Granger was not simply still sharp, not simply ever more hungry for knowledge, but enjoying the hunt for that information. She was right on the way to becoming his new Bogart.

"So darkness is a necessary evil for the light to be seen?" Granger sneered, "a philosophical argument centuries old. That does not excuse evil."

"So I am evil?" Draco inquired, "that is quite a harsh assessment for a few disagreements back in our youth."

"Is that so? You would call years of torment at Hogwarts a few disagreements? Then I suppose that your predicament in the streets of London was through no fault of your own…a genuine misunderstanding?" she suggested, raising her eyebrows.

Ah, there it was.

"Tormenting?" he asked, mouth gaping in mock astonishment, purposefully neglecting the other part of the sentence. "I thought we were getting along so well. Are you telling me that that was not friendly banter?"

Granger's smile twisted into a disagreeable grin. "Why, I do not tend to call my friends Mudbloods."

Draco tapped his fingers on his chin, the TV series speaking to itself in the background, "well, I now see where we might have had a misunderstanding."

"Do tell," Granger leaned in, eyes fixed on his face, "who have you had a disagreement with in court? About two years ago."

Draco sighed heavily, "Why Granger," he said mournfully, "it was just revealed to me that we were not friendly at all, all this time, I must take time to come to terms with these disturbing news… I'm afraid I cannot divulge such details with an apparent stranger."

Granger raised an eyebrow, "yet you are comfortable staying in my home…" she sipped her wine.

"As you well know, I have limited choice in manner of accommodation."

"Yet you did not draw on your friends when you came into trouble two years ago," she observed. "Nor now."

Draco pursed his lips, _damn. _"At times, trusted friends are in short supply."

Granger narrowed her brown eyes at him, running them across his face in search of… something. The silence stretched. In the background, Eleanor was trying to convince her soul mate to help her in her predicament.

"Well then," said Granger at last, "might I suggest that we put our disagreements in the past? A first step might be to get you some new clothes, if you will."

Draco held her gaze for a moment. Following this evening he did not know what to make of Granger. One part a generous charity giver, one part psychotic puzzle solver? What he knew for certain is that he did not want to end up on the street again. Still holding her gaze, Draco nodded.


	6. Chapter 5: And a shopping trip

**A/N: Yes, it has been a while. I know and apologise... but some good news: this story is continuing and will continue. Despite occasional gaps in the publishing of chapters. I have a PhD thesis to write, uni students to teach... so, yeah. Deadlines.**

**I hope that you nevertheless enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Chapter 5: And a shopping trip

Hermione woke up with mixed feelings.

And a bad hangover.

A really bad hangover.

Through the mist in her brain, Hermione started piecing together the events of the previous day. Swallowing what felt like a dune of sand, she decided that getting a glass of water was a matter of urgency. She then quickly changed her mind - as soon as the stupid bed gave a horrendously loud creak under her shifting weight. Hermione collapsed back among the covers and waited for the room to stop spinning.

_Blimey, _she moaned miserably. Wrecking her brain, Hermione tried to remember what got her into a state worse than her after-break-up roll up to the pub. For one, she suspected that the purple pain-duller potion may have also dulled her sense of intoxication, so she may or may not have had a few glasses too many. She also suspected that the purple potion, or the alcohol, or the combination of the two also brought out new sides of her.

_A new form of bravery_, Harry would probably diplomatically call it. _Slimy manipulation_, Ron would probably object.

_Argh, headache and dehydration_, Hermione decided, burying her head in her pillow and silencing the imagined voices of her oldest friends.

* * *

Draco woke up vary. He listened to his surroundings and when nothing sounded too suspicious he cracked one eye open and then the other.

Granger was unpredictable. Unpredictable was scary. Unpredictable could mean crazy. And Draco knew one crazy aunt too many to know when to sleep with one eye open. Not that he really needed to tonight. When Granger passed out on the sofa yesterday, Draco - definitely not ready to surrender the bed he had just acquired - grabbed her under the armpits and dragged her to her room. He considered dumping her there unceremoniously, feeling somewhat entitled after being subjected to the inquisition-via-Granger earlier that night, but he reconsidered upon entering her room. The bed where he woke up reminded him of the stern but considerate Granger from the morning. Rolling his eyes at his own sentiment, Draco proceeded to remove the covers, deposit the drunken madwoman _kindly _in her bed, and tuck her in.

She saved his life. As nosy and bossy as she may be, she deserved to be treated with respect. And better yet, she was at receipt of it while unconscious, so no remanent 'debt' would be left behind. Draco pictured the multiple scenarios of the morning after if Granger was conscious. In one, Granger was awkwardly thanking him, in another she starts questioning her conception of Draco's persona, and in the third - worst by far - she starts expecting this sort of behaviours from him.

No, none of that would do. Draco was comfortable with sticking to the status quo. The rhythm, if you will: acknowledgement, insult, snarky comment - repeat. That's the safe dynamic that both are comfortable with and serves to keep Granger ontologically secure.

Stretching and sending an admiring look to the radiator under the window, Draco decided to crawl out of bed and head toward the kitchen to boil some water. Nothing better than some hot tea in the morning. Funny how before the universe has gone mad and cast Draco out he took all these things for granted. Breakfasts were made for him, hot water for showering was always available, and he would even reject nice mugs of tea because he wanted a different leaf in them… all that seemed ludicrous now.

Draco grabbed a couple of eggs from the fridge and stopped.

He glanced at the door to Granger's room and considered. It is true - it was ludicrous, how picky and spoilt he was in his childhood. He was also unkind and entitled. After a few months wandering the Muggle world, trying to make a living there, he became sorely aware of where it all came from. He was prideful.

It is easy to be proud when you have everything handed to you on a silver - or gold as it was in the Malfoy manor - platter. It is easy to be arrogant when you are always reassured that you are right. But take all that away and all that pride gets smashed into bleeding pulp. In the Muggle world, Draco quickly learnt he wasn't worth a knut. His estate gone, family name meaning nothing, and all magical education entirely worthless or even dangerous. Draco was left to find his own worth.

Sweet talking and knowledge of fine things seemed to do the trick. Wines, art, looks and his general charm were things Draco excelled at, he soon found out. If being charming was his trade for over a year, then why was he being an arse to Granger? Even more importantly, why was he insisting on being his teenage self, when through tough circumstance he indeed learnt _who he was _without the money and the title?

The kettle finished boiling and Draco sighed.

_Fine, _he surrendered to his mental voices, scowling. She was probably terribly hangover anyway - and as Draco now knew - he was not above basic human decency.

Brewing a mug of camomile tea and grabbing a glass of water, Draco marched toward the door down the corridor. He stopped right before it, listening.

Silence.

No. Some miserable groaning and whimpering. And sniffing.

He assumed it was Granger feeling sorry for herself but to be safe, he gently knocked on the door.

Silence. "Yeah?" came a hoarse and low snivel from the room. Merlin, she sounded a hundred years old.

"I've got some water for you, may I enter?" he said loudly.

More moaning and then another weak "yeah…"

Pushing the door open, Draco found Granger looking like the potions classroom after the first year's class: shabby yet eerie. The curtains were drawn and the room was submerged in a spectral twilight. Granger looked like something between a zombie and a ghost, an effect pronounced by her Mourning Myrtle-like sound effect. Still in yesterday's clothes, her hair a tangled mane around her head, eyes bloodshot and red. _Pretty as a picture, _Draco remarked to himself sarcastically, walking into the room with glass and mug in each hand.

But then again Draco had no doubt whatsoever that he looked much worse than Granger when she helped him. He had even less doubt on the matter that she did much more for him than hand a glass of water and a steaming brew.

Draco crossed to room toward the cadaverous woman and stood over her holding out the glass. As she struggled to sit up, her tawny skin getting a hint greener in the process, Draco reflected that this should really remain tête-à-tête - his and her conditions over the last few days. In fact, this may even be good for him. It might just keep her from spilling the beans over his state.

As Granger gulped her water, Draco considered - maybe they came across each other in Hyde Park. Maybe that's what the story could be should he ever returns to the Wizarding World. Met at a a bar in the Shard? Yes, this could work.

"Thanks," Granger gasped, handing an empty glass over and putting her head against the headboard.

"You might want to go a little easier on the drinks," Draco suggested thrusting the tea mug into her hands, "as much as I enjoy seeing you pissed and brusque, I am not sure I can take care of the aftermath. That's camomile."

Granger cringed at his words, rolling head to meet his eyes, "listen, Malfoy, about last night -" she began.

"I am going to cook some eggs," Draco interrupted, "if you can stomach that, I'll meet you in the kitchen." And he headed out.

He did not need the Gryffindor speech.

* * *

Granger did not emerge from her room for the rest of the morning. Draco ate in blissful silence, sipping his tea and watching the snowflakes through the window as they calmly drifted down to join the white canopy on earth. The snowstorm has calmed overnight and the view outside the apartment was that of uninterrupted pristine snow. Over buildings, over cars, and over what he assumed in summer is a small green grass area in front of the apartment building. He was wondering which London suburb he was actually in. The apartment buildings were unlike the old townhouses he'd seen in central London, but it was also not the glass new-builds in the newly popular neighbourhoods. This place could be anywhere. Only the spacious enough distances between buildings really gave away that it was somewhere in the outskirts of the city. Leaning back in the kitchen chair by the window, Draco sighed in tranquility. Suburban, quiet, warm. It was simple and comfortable. He could see what attracted a dull character like Granger to this life. Before his exile from the wizarding world, he would have scorned at the little apartment in its insignificant Muggle neighbourhood. But that was before, and now is now. Now he was happy to hold on to a hot brew and content to feel the omelette being digested in his full belly. _The simple things in life can be so undervalued_, he reflected.

Apart from the times Granger was in the house, his stay with her was exceeding expectations. It was even pleasant. It was_ warm_, and while the apartment was very minimal and uninspiring at best, Draco found that it was a comprehensive minimum standard. There was few enough spices in the kitchen to make a simple dish, there were few decorations in the living room but enough to make it not entirely barren. That was just it, Granger's life (if it was at all was reflected in her apartment) was just _enough._ Had she also stopped at _enough _wine last night, Draco reflected sourly, she may have also had delivered on her promise of new clothes.

While everything was comfortable to an extent, Draco was starting to feel the familiar and mildly terrifying itch of increasing grime. He hasn't showered since Granger assaulted his modesty to his own benefit. It was just a day (and now a half) ago but he felt the roots of a panic start to set in. He was starting to no longer feel _clean. _If he showers (provided that he can go past the moaning bed-ridden gargoyle) he would still have to crawl back into the clothes he's been wearing longer than a day. He tugged at the too short sleeve and pulled the blanket closer to his body, pulling his knees to his chest. The clothes were too short on him. Whoever was their previous owner was much shorter than Draco, and broader set. But then, perhaps a less starved version of himself would have filled them out nicely, but as it were at the moment, they were quite uncomfortable. Well, if he was not going to get the aforementioned new attire, he would at least get a shower. For that, he needed Granger out of that room.

It was around 2pm when Draco has finally lost his patience. He was never particularly patient to begin with, he reflected as he strode purposefully toward the door at the end of the corridor. He was indeed quite an impatient child as he was growing up, and as much as his intimate acquaintance with the Muggle world has changed his habits and perspectives, it did not change his character.

"Alright, Granger," he announced as he threw the door open, startling the witch, "that's quite enough of feeling sorry for yourself."

She was sat on the bed, leaning against the boards when he came in, but now she straightened her back and was blinking at him in astonishment.

"Don't you have some rehydrating potions you can take?" he snapped at her, motioning vaguely toward the bathroom door.

He rolled his eyes when she weakly shook her head. "Well, why the hell not?" he probed, before muttering "and she calls herself a witch."

"Right then," he commanded, "get yourself washed up and come to the kitchen. A toast will do you good to set your stomach."

And he marched out. This better make a point. This better not get his behind kicked out of the apartment.

Draco bit his lip and stood outside of the closed bedroom door listening. It was a gamble, really. Granger might pull whatever trick she pulled out of the hat last night, and behave unpredictable and conniving. Or she might be the usual Granger from school, in which case assertiveness with a Madam Pomfrey undertone might work.

After two minutes of silence in which Draco was holding his breath, he finally heard a cracking of the bed, a muttered curse which did seem to imply the Merlin did not wash his socks as often as he should have, and then the shutting of the bathroom room and running of water. _Thank Merlin, _Draco sighed in relief before darting to the kitchen to finish preparing the light lunch that might keep him off the streets.

* * *

Draco made a simple chicken soup using some chicken thighs he found in the freezer. He threw in some carrot and whatever elements of a bouquet garni that he could gather around the kitchen, and sat down to wait. It was unlikely that Granger was able to stomach much more than that and since he had time to consider his predicament in detail this morning, he came to the conclusion that he should show his usefulness to Granger. In the very least, he would have a place to stay - and if he was lucky, she would stop behaving like his personal horseman of the Draco-polypse.

When Granger emerged into the kitchen, Draco realised that he would never have to wonder what a zombie-vampire might look like (and since he already witnessed a ghost/zombie earlier in the day, he might as well keep gathering undead crossovers). Granger had a sickened green-hued look to her, he eyes swollen and walk sluggish. Her recently washed hair was tossed around her head like a wet mop, and when she passed the window, she lifted her paler-than-usual arms to shield her from the light, a cringe and a hiss emerging from her throat. Not for the first time, Draco wondered how Granger was not single.

She half-sat, half-collapsed into her kitchen chair and lifted heavy eyes at Draco.

"Morning sunshine," he said sarcastically before getting up and serving them both soup with bread.

As Granger started eating, she kept lifting her eyes and fixing them on Draco. Suspicion blooming.

"You can cook," she finally said.

"Fine observation," Draco remarked in retort.

"But it's a Muggle kitchen," she responded.

"Yet another fine observation," he said, "you're on a roll."

"What I mean is _how_?" she snarled.

"You don't know?" he asked in fake wonderment, "well, that would explain quite a few things. Look, this button here," he pointed at the induction hob, "turns on the hob - "

"I know what it does," she cut him off, "how do you _know_ how to operate a Muggle kitchen?"

"Ah, well," Draco said, "that is an entirely different question, Granger."

"Fine observation," she responded sarcastically.

"I've used them before." He said shortly and finally.

"Where?" Granger pressed.

"Are we launching another investigation, Granger?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yesterday night you were quite keen on reviving the Spanish inquisition," he reminded her, watching her expression shift from annoyed to guilty. There it was. That was something he could use.

Another gamble worked out for Draco, he smiled inwardly. Today Granger wasn't feeling manipulative, which sets Draco as the only cunning arsehole in the flat. Which then puts him at an advantage.

Quickly, before Granger changes her mind, Draco added: "How's the soup?"

She swallowed a spoonful. "Surprisingly good," she said, "I didn't know you could cook."

Point for Draco. Call him a personal chef. "Ah, this is nothing. You should see my laksa."

At the blank expression on Granger's face, Draco quickly assessed that she had no idea what he was talking about. "It's a south Asian soup," he prompted, "based on lemongrass, shrimp paste, ginger, and garlic, among other things…" _Oh dear, she has no clue what lemongrass is? _Draco thought in horror.

"Right," Granger drawled.

They ate in silence for a while, watching suspiciously at each others movements.

"You won't tell me anything," she said at last.

Draco pursed his lips. There was one thing he hated most: Gryffindor straightforward-ness.

"What is it that you so desperately itch to know, Granger?" Draco asked, exasperated.

"I want to help you, Malfoy," she responded.

"That's not what I asked." He said firmly.

"I want to understand what happened, so I could get you the help you need," she said, giving him that typical Gryffindor-sincerity-in-a-bottle look. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"You're going to have to be more specific than that," he said dryly, tilting his bowl and spooning the remainder of the soup. "The help I need at the moment is a pair of nice long trousers and a jumper that will cover my forearms." At that, he lifted one of his arms and flashed a nude forearm (not the one with the hideous tattoo).

She pursed her lips and Draco noticed a twitch to her eye.

"And you need some rehydrating potion," he insisted, gesturing toward her head. "Why don't you have some? Why does a witch insist on living in a fully Muggle neighbourhood, in a fully Muggle house?"

Granger sucked at her teeth as she considered him.

"A deal," she said at last.

Draco inhaled and exhaled deeply. Then he looked her right in the eyes, locking her gaze.

"I am listening." He said.

"An answer for an answer. Specific, clear questions, and no one is forced to answer that which we do not want to," she said, her voice attaining that authority of the previous day.

Draco considered. She was protecting herself. There was things that she was also uncomfortable sharing.

"You've got yourself a deal," he finally said, leaning back in his seat.

"Why did you leave the wizarding world?" she shot.

"I was forced to," he responded, "why don't you have potions in your house?"

"I don't need them," he said, "who forced you to leave?"

"Circumstances," he answered, "and that's a lie, you owe me another question. You obviously need potions, why are you not keeping them in your house?"

He saw her grind her teeth, "because I choose to live in a Muggle way," she said irritably.

"Why?"

"Because, Malfoy, I have personal reasons to. I do not want to talk about this any further." She said, tensely.

"So be it," Draco relented, "but you know that you can keep your Muggle stuff _and _have potions, right? You've got all those runes and magical books. In principle it is the same."

"You've noticed it." She said. It was not a question.

"What are the runes for?"

"For work." She said.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"Ah!" she raised a finger, "now it's my turn: what circumstances forced you out of the wizarding world?"

Draco considered her question for a moment. "Bureaucratic," he said in the end.

"Why don't you order in potions when you need them?" he asked, curiosity nagging at him, "then you won't break whatever ridiculous moral rule you have there."

At this, Granger frowned, "whatever do you mean?"

"Order in," Draco said slowly, as though chatting with a simpleton, "you know, a delivery. You've got those WizPhones, surely you have deliveries."

Granger glanced at her phone on the table, at though seeing it for the first time.

"Surely, if you have Muggle technology, you have deliveries. And with magic, deliveries must be instantaneous. It cannot be that the creators of the WizPhone had not thought of that." Draco said scoffing.

"They have not…" Granger said, staring at her phone.

* * *

It seemed like through mutual mute agreement, Draco and Granger decided to resume the questions-answers exchange later. They got up, moved their plates to the sink and Draco set to washing them while Granger stared into space with a far away expression. Draco wasn't sure whether he accidentally broke her and there was nothing going on behind that blank expression, or whether he simply set her off on a new mission of some sort. Regardless of that, he had a clear mission of his own, which involved sending Granger into her bedroom to change and set her off to inner London to pick up some clothes for Draco. And to grab some potions in Wizarding London. As long as he is staying there, he will not have any more of this silliness. A few threats regarding common and preventable yet life-endangering magical ailments seemed to do the trick. Granger still looked unwell when she was adorning her Muggle jacket but at least some colour returned to her cheeks.

When she finally left, Draco settled in to watch the next episodes of _The Good Place_, but his attention kept drifting to the box of runes and wires. Now that his curiosity was piqued, he was keen to discover what Granger's occupation was. If she did not speak of it, perhaps it was as simple as an Unspeakable in the ministry? But then, they are not allowed to bring their work home as far as he knew. Could it be an archivist for the Great British Magical Library? But what would wires and chips have to do with anything? Unable to contain his curiosity, Draco reached for one of the boxes and sat down to rampage through it.

* * *

Hermione still felt queasy when she stepped out of her apartment building and started plowing through the snow to the nearest apparition point. She could have apparated directly from outside her apartment, but she decided that some fresh air would be in good order. Hermione loved snow; there was something mesmerising about watching the world turn white and fluffy under the cover of frozen water. She loved the sensation of the crisp coldness filling her lungs and the crunching sound fresh snow made underfoot. She took a deep breath in and started feeling some of the fog that filled her mind dissipate. She partly blamed her headache on Malfoy, being the arse that he was, but she also acknowledged that it was a little bit petty. Malfoy did help her in the morning, and then the lunch he made was remarkably considerate of her state and indeed helped to settle her stomach.

Hermione stretched her neck from side to side as she walked. Indeed, the cold served to clear her mind. She was feeling better already. Or perhaps it was putting some distance from Malfoy that helped. He knew all the right ways to rile her up. It was the mere presence of her childhood nemesis that vexed her. Snarky comments, being all clever with word choices, and what not. Arse. Annoying prick. That's what he is. With a gust of wind, Hermione shivered and hunched her shoulders, raising her scarf to hide more of her face. Perhaps she ought to get herself a nice hot mug of coffee and think things through. She needed to be away from Malfoy for a while.

Reluctantly following Malfoy's proddings, Hermione's first stop was at Mr Mulpepper's Apothecary. Perhaps it was wise to keep a few potions against common _magical _ailments, Hermione decided. It would do her no good if she burst into Green Burns without a healing potion. Oh, Merlin, what would her neighbours think if they saw her? It was bad enough that all Muggle images of witches showed a witch afflicted with the ailment. _No, that wouldn't do at all, _Hermione decided firmly as she walking into Mr Mulpepper's, her mouth in a determined line. Besides, she needed to stock up on some potion ingredients for some time.

An efficient shop later, Hermione made her hasty way through the Leaky Cauldron back into Muggle London. She dashed through the pub, making herself appear in a hurry, sending nods of acknowledgement and greetings toward any witches or wizards that locked eyes with her. There was no time for "quick chats" with acquittances today. Not if Hermione wanted to arrive in TkMaxx before its closing time to pick out some discounted clothes for the ferret. But more importantly, Hermione wanted to get some peace and quiet to sit and think over a cup of coffee.

That was indeed her next stop, a little way off Charing Cross Hermione saw a quaint cafe covered in Christmas vines, with red letters announcing _Brigit's Bakery._ It was a fine establishment. Hermione found a seat at the window, ordered a coffee with a scone, took her jacket off and sat down. Pulling the sleeves of her jumper up to warm her hands, she sat for a while watching the world go by outside the window and feeling her nose slowly thaw.

There was a lot to consider, really. But everything has been going on so quickly, so hurriedly. However, this morning her brain refused to cooperate, which reminded her... Hermione opened her bottomless bag, thrust her hand into it and summoned the rehydration potion. She pulled the cork out of the little black bottle and took a swing. The effect was immediate. As though someone wiped clean a window she wasn't entirely aware she could hardly see through. She sighed in relief.

An elderly lady at the next table was looking at her, a judging expression on her face.

Hermione pursed her lips, "cough syrup," she explained weakly. The lady returned her eyes back to her companion, looking unconvinced.

Soon Hermione's coffee and scone were brought to her and finally taking a sip of the marvellous liquid, Hermione let tranquility wash over her. A pleasant chill went down her body. Yes, this was what she needed. She sat back and started analysing the situation.

What were the facts she knew and what has Malfoy revealed so far? First, he was homeless. Second, he left but more likely was removed from the Wizarding World about two years ago. Third, he said the reason for his exile was "bureaucratic" which coincides with the media scandal about war time reparations. It was a court case. Could it be that Malfoy was exiled for his father's crimes? Hermione and Harry testified in Draco Malfoy's court case on Death Eater membership. He was found not guilty of harm to the magical community. It could not be that he would be tried for his father's crimes. Dark Artefacts, if found, are recovered within a tight deadline by Aurors. Something was amiss. Well, this is a thread she will have to keep pulling on. What else did she know? Fourth, Malfoy did not spend all his time in the Muggle world homeless; his familiarity with Muggle kitchens alone could prove that. Fifth, and one that Hermione was not proud of in terms of the manner of extraction of this information: Malfoy did not have friends who could help him. Could it be because they were no longer in contact? Could it be because they were not in position to help?

Now that Hermione thought about it, she occasionally saw people from all years and houses in Hogwarts. On the streets, in pubs, in gatherings, in work meetings… but Malfoy was probably the only Slytherin of her year that she saw in the past half decade. She frowned, tapping her mug and biting at her lip. Something about all this really did not seem right.

A quick text to Harry later, Hermione booked him in to have lunch in two days. If there was something to be known about Dark Artefacts in the Malfoy Manor, Harry will have heard of it. As long as there is nothing confidential, he will be able to help. But as for Malfoy… no matter how allergic she seemed to be to him, she could not send him back to the streets. He did not have anyone who he could draw on for assistance, at least at the moment, so he would have to stay with her. _But at least he can cook_, reminded her a part of herself, _you can't even boil water right._

Scowling at her own inner voices, Hermione took the last swing of her coffee, paid her bill at the counter and left the cafe. The sooner she found out what was up with Malfoy, the sooner she could get him out of her hair. But for now, she will have see if he can deliver on whatever that asian soup he was rambling on about.

* * *

**A/N:** And... that's that for today. There will be more. Truly. I am also curious to how Hermione would react to a laksa.


End file.
